


Swallow the Sun

by Shaish, Stringlish



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blood, Monster - Freeform, Monsters, Steve being adorable, Steve is not sane, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Vampire AU, Vampire Bucky Barnes, Vampire Steve Rogers, Vampires, Violence, lots of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 11:37:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 91,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2546165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaish/pseuds/Shaish, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stringlish/pseuds/Stringlish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's when I'm asleep that I'm alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. With Hope and Desperation

**Author's Note:**

> AGAIN. Was going to wait on posting this one too, but HALLOWEEN. I have a need. This one has more direction than the werewolf one and I've got a few chapters in the works already but it's more a back-burner-work-on-this-when-I'm-taking-a-break-from-wings-and-punk story. I have a hierarchy and it is: Wings, Punk, Vampire, Werewolf. Wings takes up most of my time, Punk nags the most, and Vampire and Werewolf are relaxers when I'm taking a break from the other two.  
> SO REMEMBER WHEN I SAID I WAS WORKING ON TOO MANY THINGS? Totally working on too many things.
> 
> This also starts out how I wanted Wings to start out but it didn't work for that story fjdkls. BUT I GOT IT INTO THIS ONE AW YES.

The only thing he knows is that it’s cold. He can’t move, and at first, he panics, tries to struggle for a while as his mind races and his chest tries to heave but it’s stuck, like he’s in a vice, and he slowly forces himself to calm, to think, take inventory of himself.

The first thing he knows is: He can’t breathe, but he learned not too long ago that he never had to since the serum. Bucky had been scared, kneeling at Steve’s side where he’d been blown back by an unexpected blast. Steve had opened his eyes to find Bucky’s own wide, mouth hanging open and fingers pressed hard into the nonexistent pulse point at his neck, where Steve’s heart wasn’t beating.

Steve had known for a while, first found out in his first quiet moment after he got Bucky back from Austria and the military camp had started entertaining itself in the middle of the night. After he got away from the festivities and the lights. That first quiet moment, standing in the middle of his tent (his _own tent_ ), he realized there wasn’t a steady flow of blood in his veins, no insistent drumbeat in his chest, his ears, beating faster than time. His breath had caught somewhere in his throat and then it’d just... _stopped_ there. He didn’t breathe in, didn’t breathe out, realized he didn’t need to. That he’d only been doing it out of habit.

That pressure, that burn from a lack of oxygen never came and he’d dropped heavily to sit on his cot, metal squeaking under his new and sudden weight. There was still no drumming in his ears where his heart should’ve been going a mile a minute (because it could now, if it were beating). But it was silent, and all he could hear was the celebration outside and bootsteps slowly and quietly coming his way. He’d forced himself to breathe then and smile up at Bucky when he entered the tent. It was so dark and Bucky’s face was so clear, and Steve could see, even with it as dark as it was, that Bucky hadn’t noticed the difference, not yet. He couldn’t see as well in the dark, not like Steve could, so Steve forced himself to breathe.

Bucky’d been mad as hell when Steve finally told him. But it’s cold now, colder than the alps where Bucky- 

The second thing he knows is: It’s _cold_. His eyes feel like they’re glued shut and he’s _tired hungry tired_. Exhausted in a way he’s never been, even when he was only skin and bones.

The third thing he knows is: He’s hungry.

He can’t do anything about any of these things, and the panic starts rising again so he focuses on the cold, focuses so hard he’s sure he’d put the intensity of Bucky’s worst glares at their burned, terrible, campfire coffee to shame.

He’s not sure how long he’s been... _here_ , wherever here is, in the cold, but he sleeps, sometimes, and that’s the only way he keeps track of the days, at least for the first month. It gets old after that, so he stops. 

He thinks of Bucky a lot, and thinks he cries sometimes, or would if he were capable of creating the moisture, of shedding it. But he can’t, so his chest clenches and his still heart hurts, but that’s it, so he lets the feeling overwhelm him and loses days at a time being consumed in it, replaying every moment he’s had with Bucky over and over in his head, from the good to the bad, from the early to the last, and he manages to grit his teeth, just slightly. It’s only half a centimeter, but it’s something, and it calms him more than he can say.

He starts counting the days again. It gives him something to do when he’s not fully consumed with thinking about Bucky, Peggy, the Commandos, his _life_. Bucky. It’s two months into his counting that he starts _talking_ to Bucky, if only in his head, replays old conversations, more recent ones, spins out scenarios in his head of what would have happened if he’d said something else here, acted different there, how it all would have played out. 

When he’s exhausted all those, worn them thin at the edges at around what might loosely be the two year mark, he moves on to having conversations with ‘Bucky’. He asks Bucky questions, Bucky replies with what Steve thinks he would say, and it’s nice. Sometimes he wants to laugh, sometimes he wants to smile, sometimes he wants to cry, and that’s more than he can say for the time before it, even if the idle thought floats by now and then that he might be _losing his mind_. It’s worth it, he thinks, if he can keep talking to Bucky, real or not. And besides, it’s the only real thing that takes his mind off the _hunger_. 

He hasn’t eaten in so long, he’d take a cow at this point. Three cows. A dozen? A whole _farm_. He’d take them all, and grin at Bucky with the red all over his mouth just to gross him out, for the gagging look and sound he’d make as he told Steve, “ _That’s gross, Rogers. And chew with your damn mouth closed, you heathen_.” 

It makes him sad, so sad it’s like he’s being swallowed whole by the gaping black hole in his chest, but it also makes him smile, and it’s _Bucky_. He’ll take anything, as long as Bucky’s there, even if it’s only in his head.

\-----

At some point during the third year, he’s in the middle of a conversation with Bucky about penguins, because he’s cold ( _at least he thinks he’s cold. Has been cold the whole time?_ ) and wonders how they do it, even with their insulation, when he hears a voice that he didn’t will into being and his mental conversation stutters to a stop, peters out like a blown out candle. It wasn’t words or anything, just a soft hum, could’ve easily been him, but he wasn’t humming and Bucky wasn’t either, so it _couldn’t_ have been him. Then it talks.

 _‘Would you like me to release you?’_ the voice asks, deeper and more sultry than anything Steve’s ever heard before, even more than in the movies or on the radio. Even when Bucky was drunk and half asleep and rambling, “ _I can’t believe that dame said that to you. Don’t know what she’s missin’. I just don’t get why they can’t **see it** ,_” and Steve wants to shift, but can’t, so instead he shifts in his head. Maybe he really _is_ losing it.

 _‘What?’_ he thinks, asks.

‘ _I said: Would you like me to release you?_ ’ the voice repeats, sounding just the slightest bit amused.

‘ _I-_ ’ Steve pauses. He’s not even exactly sure _where_ he is. The last thing he remembers is crashing Schmidt’s plane, so he’s been assuming he’s still in it, somewhere, where it’s cold.

‘ _Take your time_ ,’ the voice says after a few moments of Steve’s indecision.

‘ _I...Thank you_ ,’ Steve says, uncertain. Because this has to be in his head. He’s not sure what he’d do if it’s _not_. How it would even be _possible_ -

He forces the idea out.

So, since this is all in his head and the voice said he could, he _does_ take his time. He seems to have a lot of it, and the voice didn’t sound the slightest bit in a hurry, so he thinks it over, in depth.

He entertains the idea that he could get out of wherever he is, whatever’s holding him suspended and still ( _he thinks he might be frozen, but thinking about it is going somewhere he’s not quite ready to. He’s had to make a lot of adjustments since the serum, and being alive while essentially being frozen is on a whole different level, and Bucky would yell at him to no end for getting himself into this mess. ...which says something else about the ‘whole new levels’ he’s already gone_ ). He could go back to Peggy. It’s only been a few years. He could get back into the war, if his actions haven’t ended it already.

He could go back to Brooklyn, to his apartment-...and up to Bucky’s. See everything he’s going to have to leave behind, pack Bucky’s things into a box and keep it in his closet somewhere. 

Bucky’s voice in his head is one thing, but facing the reality that he’s actually... _gone?_ Steve doesn’t-...And he’d see families on his street. Mrs. Baker was set to give birth a couple years ago, there’ll be a little Baker running through the halls, up and down the street, kids playing ball-bat and old Mr. Henry shining people’s shoes for a penny with a smile like nothing’s changed when Steve’s whole world and even his humanity have been flipped upside down.

Peggy will be alive, and the Commandos ( _he chooses to think so_ ). He could marry her, if she’d have him as he is now. He could reminisce with the guys every once in a while at a bar ( _at night_ ) over the war, over Buc- He could visit Bucky at the cemetery, even though he’s not sure if they found his bod-

Steve runs it all over in his mind, all the scenarios he can come up with and all of the conversations. It takes him about six months to cover them all, but he does it, and he finds he…

‘ _Hello?_ ’ he asks. It takes a moment, but he gets a reply.

‘ _Have you come to a decision?_ ’ the voice asks, just as patient and long waiting as before.

‘ _I have_ ,’ Steve replies, ‘ _Thank you for the offer, but I...I’d like to stay where I am_.’

‘ _Hmm_ ,’ the voice says, and Steve thinks he can imagine lips curling up, ‘ _As you wish_.’

The voice doesn’t come back, and Steve’s left to his hunger and conversations and silence, just like he’d chosen. 

Something fractures a little in his chest, breaks off like a piece of the ice he’s starting to think he’s in, but something also stills, too, uncoils into the arms of where he lays. 

He thinks both of those somethings might be his heart.

\-----

He manages to move his tongue just enough to nick it on a sharpened canine. The resulting blood hits him like a truck and the few drops that form are a slow slide of torture down the back of his throat. 

When his tongue heals, he doesn’t try it again. He’d rather go hungry than suffer through that again.

\-----

Three more years pass by and the hunger is a background ache. The only thing keeping him sane are his conversations with Bucky, which makes ‘sane’ a malleable word.

It’s not lost on him, the irony that the only thing keeping him _sane_ is talking to his own _mental projection_ of _Bucky_ , who’s dea- who talks _back_. But he can’t find it in himself to _care_.

He doesn’t feel the cold anymore. It’s in him now, seeped down past his bones and into the depths of him.

\-----

Two more years and he stops keeping track of the days.

\-----

What might be a very, very long time later ( _he’s not sure_ ), there’s a _thump_ a ways off. He can’t hear it, but he feels its vibrations and it drags him out of his headspace. There’s a few more vibrations, but they’re lighter, softer. He thinks they might be footsteps.

More time passes, more small vibrations, and the sudden light behind his eyelids is soft but like a shock and he’d recoil if he could. 

There’s more light not too long later, a lot more, and he just wants it all to _go_ _away_.

‘ _Quit bein’ a baby_ ,’ Bucky says, and Steve can easily picture him cleaning his rifle with a knee propped up and a smoke dangling out of the corner of his mouth, barely keeping dry because he’s sitting just before the curtain of rain falling outside their makeshift tent.

‘ _I’m not being a ‘baby’_ ,’ Steve replies, pouting slightly down at him. The gray sky is getting lighter, too fast, too quickly. He doesn’t like it.

Bucky grunts, but doesn’t look up at him. ‘ _I know you don’t like it_.’

‘ _Shuddup_ ,’ Steve grumbles back, squinting up at the sky. The rain’s falling harder and he can feel a panic starting up in his chest, half thinks he’s going to end up in a coughing fit any minute now before he remembers what he is and brushes the thought aside. ‘ _And quit readin’ my mind_.’

Bucky smirks, but still doesn’t look up at him. They both know the uselessness of _that_ comeback.

‘ _Shuddup_ ,’ Steve repeats at the look on Bucky’s face, making himself take a deep breath that he doesn’t need. It smells like vaguely remembered rain and smoke, a hint of the acrid stench of burned and decaying bodies just on the edges. It’s horrifying, and even more so to realize that it reminds him more of _home_ than his apartment in _Brooklyn_ does these days.

Steve has a bad feeling about that light, and he likes where he is, where he’s been since- For a long time. It almost feels like he’s only been here for a few minutes, but it’s like that a lot, no matter how much changes and stays the same in the world of his head.

Bucky stands up after a few more moments and shoulders his rifle when the light gets even brighter and forces Steve to take a step back, a hand coming up to shadow his eyes. 

Bucky makes to step out into the rain, into the light, and Steve darts forward to grab his arm with his other hand, gripping it tighter than he knows the real Bucky would actually be able to stand, panic spiking in his chest. ‘ _Don’t leave me_ ,’ he pleads, desperation in his voice, and a part of his mind whispers: _Then you shouldn’t have let him fall in the first place_.

Bucky looks back at him over his shoulder, mouth quirked in a cocky smile and his smoke still dangling out of the side of his mouth, barely held between his lips. ‘ _It’s time to get up, Rogers_.’

Steve frowns, worries the inside of his lower lip between four sharp points. ‘ _I don’t want to_ ,’ he says, ‘ _I want to stay here with you_.’

Bucky raises an eyebrow, tilting his head a little towards him. ‘ _Who says I’m goin’ anywhere?_ ’

Steve swallows but doesn’t loosen his hold on Bucky’s arm. He’s slipping away from Steve anyway like the wisp of smoke he is, so Steve tries to grip him tighter. ‘ _Bucky_ -’

‘ _I’ll be here_ ,’ Bucky says, and then he’s fading into the white hot light and Steve squints his eyes against it, trying to find him even though he knows it’s useless. He’d look for Bucky anywhere, anyway, he always _has_ -

The light gets brighter and Steve holds in a yell. 

He used to love the sun, at least for ten minutes at a time. Couldn’t be out in it much, but it lit things up so beautiful and he’d draw and draw until his lead and charcoal were nothing but stubs between his fingertips and smudges on his skin. Bucky would always lean over his shoulder, would take pride in it because he was the only one that could and say, “ _That’s really somethin’, Steve_ ,” and Steve knew Bucky always meant it. But now the sun _hurts_ -

\--

The first thing he hears with his ears in _so long_ is excited murmuring, the kind Howard used to make when he got elbow deep in Hydra technology and would start talking to anyone and everyone around him, whether they were listening or not. It’s frenetic and waterlogged and his skin _burns_ even though he’s still so cold he can’t _feel_ it, only knows he is because of something primal in the back of his mind.

He can hear water _dripdropping_ somewhere, _everywhere_ , hitting something below him with loud _drop **thuds**_ , feels water leaking out of his ears, distorting all the sounds. Then he hears the pitches of voices go up and down, quickly pieces together that it’s conversation and questions and short strings of words he can’t yet make out, and underneath it all is the _drum_. He can smell it, still covered by skin, but it’s _there_ , and he-

He shouldn’t. He _can’t_ , nevermind shouldn’t. They’re _people_ -

His skin hurts so bad, and the voices are getting more and more excited the worse it _gets_ \- 

He wants to move, get _away_ -

When was the last time he moved?

The _drumming_ gets closer. 

Something _warm **hot**_ brushes against his skin and he can _feel the drum_ -

His fingers twitch, and then his hand lashes out and _he_ _can_ _move_ -

He grabs too hard, his fingers closing down in a clamping, jerky motion, feels human bones crush like bird bones in his hand as he leaps off whatever he was lying on, ice cracking on the pants of his uniform, the arms, water dripping off him as he shifts his legs and swings around, pain shooting out from... _everywhere_. Screams and frantic steps beat a pulse in his ears where his own blood no longer can and he darts his mouth down towards the heat he can feel gripped tight in his hand-

 

Something _whizzes_ past his ear with a loud _bang_ and the lights go brighter, somehow, blinding him even further and he lets go with a throaty growl, running for the first batch of shadows he can see and zooming past whatever he let go of that’s in his way, mind and stomach _screaming_ because he’s _so_ _hungry_ andeverything _hurts_ -

Something loud double thuds behind him as he runs but he doesn’t look, mostly blind and senses overwhelmed with heatdrummingscreamshoutspainhotburninghot _pain_ \- 

Something skims his shoulder with another loud _bang_ and he instinctively dives into the shadows, right shoulder hitting something solid and he presses himself further into it, arm shaking as it comes up to block out the light and shadow his face. The burning alleviates a little as soon as he’s out of reach of the light that hurtshurts _hurts_ \- 

His eyes dart around wildly and he hears more shouting in his direction, but he can’t focus to make out what’s being said or even what _language_ it’s in because he’s hungryhurtshungry _hurts_ and he grits his teeth, letting out a loud growl from somewhere deep in his throat past his hand in the direction of the voices. 

He wants to go back to Bucky. He wants to go back to being still and being cold and _Bucky_. His body hurts. Everything’s bright and everything _hurts_ and nothing _**makes sense here**_ -

There’s a sharp, deep command from the opposite side of wherever he is and then all of the shouting and commotion abruptly stops, the silence sudden and blessedly soothing. The lights dim down to the gentlest glow and he still can’t see yet but it doesn’t hurt as much, nothing hurts as much now except the literal hunger pains wracking his body, making him quiver in what might look like fear when it’s really him trying to hold _himself_ _back_. He knows there’s people here, somewhere close, can _smell them_ -

He doesn’t want to attack them. They could be friendlies. They could also be enemies. Captors. But he doesn’t _know_ -

The pain continues, but the blinding light echoed and trapped in his eyes eases, slowly, so slowly, and he doesn’t realize he’s not breathing until the group of men surrounding him from ten feet away in a heavily packed, heavily armed half circle finally start to come into focus. Steve darts his eyes around, quickly taking in the room and slowly lowering his arm, still pressed tensed and coiled tight against what turns out to be a metal wall to his right.

The swath of men part down the middle but the guns stay trained on him, red dots on his body marking all of his vital points, and a man steps through to the front, bald with an eyepatch and what might be sympathy and...calculation in his eyes. It makes Steve wary.

“Can you understand me?” the man asks.

Steve opens his mouth to speak, finds he can’t, throat tight and _dry, so dry_ \- 

He closes his mouth, swallows - wincing slightly at the scratch of it, wants to cough - and nods his head once, instead.

The man’s shoulders relax, just slightly, and he nods back. “We’re going to leave you this room and send some things in,” the man starts, and Steve tenses, “Nothing harmful,” the man states calmly, noticing, “You’re free to check or reject it if you want, but it’d probably be in your best interest if you didn’t.”

The man signals the rest and they all slowly file out, keeping Steve in the sights of their guns until they’ve all retreated to the two large and tall double doors he couldn’t notice before. 

A few minutes later and four boxes are brought in and left a few feet in front of the door, and then all of the armed men file out and the doors close, followed by the sound of multiple locks _clicking_ into place, renewed silence filling his ears. Steve relaxes slightly, even though he does appear to be held captive. _Somewhere_.

The lights cut out completely and Steve tenses for a few minutes before letting himself relax slightly again, but stays where he is, coiled against the wall and dripping water and slowly melting ice all over the floor from his- 

He glances down. 

His _uniform_. And the ice _is_ slowly melting, but he knows it’s not because of him. He has no body heat, which means they’re keeping the room at an at least slightly warmed temperature level. Whoever _they_ are.

He can’t tell how warm it is yet.

He shivers.

They could be Hydra, but he’s not sure. They wore black like Hydra, but the insignia was different, a bird instead of a skull. ‘S.H.I.E.L.D.’ Could be a Hydra subdivision.

Steve settles in to wait. 

\-----

He’s not sure how long he sits there, just that it’s a long time. But it doesn’t bother him, he’s used to it.

\-----

He dozes, pushing the pain of hunger in his body back to the background of his mind where it was before, where it has been for _years_.

‘ _You should check it out_ ,’ he hears. His eyes snap open and focus where they’d half closed and gone _un_ focused, darting to the side. Steve frowns a little, catching sight of Bucky’s mud covered boots just to his left.

‘ _I don’t want to_ ,’ Steve says in his head. He’s not going to let ‘S.H.I.E.L.D.’, whatever it is, know about Bucky. ‘ _I just want to go back to sleep_.’

Bucky shifts in his periphery, and Steve knows he’s rolling his eyes without even having to look.

‘ _Baby_ ,’ Bucky mutters, but Steve can hear the smirk.

‘ _I am not being a ‘baby’_ ,’ Steve thinks firmly, frowning a little when Bucky’s laugh echoes inside his head.

‘ _Fine. If you’re not a ‘baby’, then go take a look_ ,’ Bucky returns nonchalantly, shifting again like he’s flung an arm out in the direction of the boxes. He probably has. Steve frowns a little more, eyes on his calves. ‘ _I **dare** you_ ,’ Bucky adds after a few moments. Steve’s lower lip pushes up a little in a slight pout. ‘ _Baby_ ,’ Bucky says again lightly, a little sing-song. 

Steve watches him out of the corner of his eye as he walks across the wide room towards the boxes, not getting any mud on the floor with his steps, stopping next to them and leaning over to look at their tops. He looks back over at Steve as he stands back up straight, hands on his hips. ‘ _Steve, come on. Come check these out. Might be something good. Like them dame magazines_ ,’ Bucky teases, waggling his eyebrows.

Steve grumbles on a breath, but, eventually, wobbly pushes himself up to standing. He stumbles a bit, but braces himself on the wall, taking a wary step towards Bucky. He’s always been a little helpless not to, whether Bucky’s actually real or not.

\-----

He watches Captain America finally make his way towards the boxes on the wide monitor opposite his desk, going around the perimeter with a hand steadying himself on the wall when he nearly falls trying to just go straight across the room. It’s a wonder he’d had enough energy to leap off the examination table and smash that poor woman’s hand, then dart across the room in a blur. 

_Adrenaline_ , Fury thinks, most likely, like a scared animal trying to get to shelter. The burning on his skin didn’t go unnoticed either, which just confirms one of the test results listed in his old S.S.R. file.

It’s been a week, _a week_ , not that he wasn’t expecting some reluctance, but from what he also read in the old files, Captain Steven Rogers needed blood at least once a week. It’s been much, much longer than that since he’s last had any.

He watches Rogers get a box open and look inside, then freeze, before slowly, shakily reaching a hand in and pulling a blood packet out. 

There’s a long minute where Fury thinks he might not take it, but then Rogers is tearing it open with four sharp incisors and four sharp canines and getting it all over his face and down his chin, neck, and front, going at it like a starved dog. 

_Or maybe a wolf_ , Fury mentally corrects, frowning slightly as he watches Rogers tear his way into another one, fingernails long and pointed like claws. A very hungry, slightly rabid wolf. One that saved the world.

Fury rubs a hand over his face, holding a breath and looking back up at the screen. Rogers is starting in on the second box already. Fury mentally checks off enhanced speed.

His office door opens and then closes almost as quickly. He catches barely audible steps approaching before slowing to a stop in front of his desk. 

“So he’s finally gone to the boxes,” Romanoff says, not asks, because who else could it be.

“ _Mmhmm_ ,” Fury hums back vaguely in reply, steepling his fingers in front of himself with his elbows propped up on his desk.

The night vision is filtering all of the cameras in the examination room, and Roger’s eyes, when he looks in the direction of any one of them, are bright flares. Like an animal’s. It’s going to be hell washing the blood out of that uniform if he decides he wants to keep it.

“Report, Agent Romanoff?”

She turns to look at him.

“There weren’t any more files on the process used or the chemicals included in the serum to turn Rogers into what he is,” she informs him, pausing. 

Fury drags his eyes to her and raises an eyebrow. “But?”

“But,” she agrees, continuing, “There is record of Doctor Erskine taking a trip with Johann Schmidt to an unknown destination before Schmidt was turned into the Red Skull. There is no record of where they went, only that they returned two weeks later.”

Fury frowns for a minute, glancing to the screen again when he catches movement.

Rogers is standing up, now steady and firm, head cocked slightly to the side, just enough to tell the naked eye that he’s listening for something, maybe anything, the glowing, bright spots of his eyes filtered through the night vision lenses focused on the door after they dart around the room like small stars. 

That whole building’s been cleared, save for the security guards stationed all along both sides of the door outside the room. He won’t find much and won’t injure anyone else.

“The files said he was a ‘good man’,” Romanoff says after a few moments, as if reading his thoughts. She’s looking back at the screen, too. “What happened earlier this week was likely an isolated incident due to malnourishment.”

Fury finally lets out his sigh, hands moving down to his desk to help push himself up, coming around it and walking towards the large monitor opposite.

“The files also say that he lost his ‘childhood best friend’ two days before he crashed that plane,” Fury replies, holding his hands behind his back, one a loose grip around the other’s wrist, “The only friend and family he really had, lost because he took him with him on that mission. We might not be accustomed to that kind of connection, but I doubt Rogers is the same man he was before that.”

Natasha doesn’t say anything, but he knows she’s regarding the man in the screen.

“The serum was said to boost the core qualities of the person they were successfully used on,” she says after a moment, coming up to his left. He glances over to her and she glances back before she returns her eyes to the screen. “Selfish, maybe, but still a ‘good man’, if my readings are correct.” 

He looks back to the screen as well.

Rogers is investigating the examination table, running a hand down along the middle of it, slowly, nails scratching just slightly and very lightly against the metal.

“He might be,” Fury allows, “But I don’t think he’s exactly a ‘man’ anymore.”

Natasha doesn’t say anything to that, and they both watch Rogers tap the table with a pointed nail once then bring the hand up to rub it over his mouth, trying to get some of the blood off before raising it to his parted lips and licking the remnants off almost absently, bright eyes looking around the room, two deadly points of light in the false green night.


	2. Sorrow has a human heart. Every night I dream you’re still here, the ghost by my side, so perfectly clear

The doors open what he thinks might be a few hours later, hall light spilling in and streaking across the floor, five feet shy of reaching the medical table he’s a few feet from. The man with the eyepatch walks in, guards hanging back but Steve can see they're at the ready, the man’s hands loose at his sides, like Steve’s. 

“Captain Rogers,” he greets. Bucky tenses at his side and Steve doesn’t say anything. The man doesn’t quite sigh, but Steve hears his breath collect and can tell it’s a close thing. “My name is Nick Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” the man continues, “You might know it better as the latest form of the old S.S.R. Division headed by Peggy Carter, Howard Stark, and Colonel Phillips.” Steve stands up a little straighter at that (and Bucky does too). It could still be a lie, but it’s possible it’s the truth, too. “You’ve been asleep for a while,” Fury continues after a moment, “I’m here to show you around.”

“How long?” Steve asks, not actually sure he wants to know. He counted for a while, but the actual amount might be…

Besides, he’s not going to compare notes. Letting anyone know he’d been aware the whole time would lead to questions, which would eventually lead to them asking about Bucky. Steve doesn’t want anyone to know about what goes on in his head, that he can practically feel Bucky standing next to him even though he’s not radiating any heat.

Fury watches him for a moment before saying, “Seventy years,” and Steve staggers even though he hasn’t taken a step, eyes widening.

‘ _Stevie_ ,’ Bucky says from his right. Steve just barely keeps himself from automatically looking. ‘ _I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore._ ’ He kind of wants to laugh, but there’s a weight in his chest keeping it down. 

“Seventy years,” he says quietly to himself, Fury’s one eye watching him.

“Come have a look,” Fury says, pausing for a moment, “But let’s get you a change of clothes, first.”

Steve looks down. Bucky snorts.

-

He follows Fury out of the room, surrounded by armed guards and Bucky at his side, forcing himself to breathe even though he hasn't needed to in apparently seventy years. It’s keeping the part of him that wants to run frantic calm, just barely, but it’s working, so he keeps doing it.

They stop in what appears to being a private living quarters, and warily, Steve takes off his uniform - cringing a little at the bloodstains all down the front - and forces himself to set it down. It’s the only familiar thing he physically has, and if what Fury said was true, if it has really been seventy years…

He makes himself change into the black t-shirt with the S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem on one shoulder and black pants, and someone comes in when he opens the door to whisk his uniform away. He stares after it, taking a step forward, but Fury stops him with, “They’re just going to get it cleaned. You’ll get it back in half an hour,” turning around and not waiting for Steve to follow as he heads down the hall.

Steve relents, staring for another few moments before turning around to follow.

When they step outside, it’s-

Steve’s eyes widen.

He was able to pick up the sounds before they’d reached the door, but outside of the enclosure of walls and doors and office windows it’s-

It’s _loud_.

And _bright_.

It’s so bright, it could almost pass for twilight, even with the sun completely down. 

There’s cars, sleek and shiny and alien zooming left and right past the sidewalk, people passing by in clusters and groups, singles and couples, all talking on devices or chattering away about a million different things he can’t sort out right now, all dressed in bright colors or dark or both, but nothing muted. He can tell the colors wouldn’t be even _if_ his vision hadn’t changed to something like a nighttime predator's. His enhanced vision makes everything all the more brighter, and all of the lights and colors make it look like he's seeing the sun shine off of it all, even though he hasn't seen much of the sun in years.

There’s a woman talking about a divorce passing them by, going left. There’s a man talking about his son and his, _"Ridiculous boyfriend_ ,” going right. There’s three teenagers talking about an, “ _Awesome concert. Hey, which band member did you think was the hottest?!_ ” There’s a dog barking three blocks away. There’s actually _ten_ dogs barking three blocks away from where he’s standing, a few tags jingling. 

He reaches up to grip his own tags through his shirt, eyes darting left and right and all over, not sure where to land. 

He tightens his grip, trying to ground himself. The metal’s cool through the fabric and the engravings are sharp enough for him to feel. It helps.

“Are you going to be okay?” Fury asks from his left, and Steve jumps, just slightly. 

When he looks over, Fury’s watching him, something in his eye pulling at Steve, something like sorrow. Steve’s only known the guy for a short time, but he gets the feeling that what he’s expressing holds more than what it seems, on the surface _and_ underneath. In a variety of ways. 

Steve nods, once.

“Yeah, it’s just…” he trails off, eyes darting back out to the city. There’s so much more _color_. “It’s bright,” he settles on numbly, overstimulated, “I never thought New York could be brighter than it was.” 

Because it _is_ New York. He recognizes buildings, here and there, things that have changed and warped enough to almost give him vertigo, but still stayed enough the same to be familiar. It almost hurts to look at on its own, like looking through glasses that don’t match his eyesight.

Fury doesn’t say anything, just lets him look. 

Bucky leans into his side, bringing his head in close to whisper, ‘ _We don’t need the sun anymore_.’

Steve swallows, eyes still darting all over his old-new world.

\--

Fury leads the way back inside, after, Steve looking over his shoulder until the front doors are closed and then glancing back frequently to look through the building’s large glass windows until they round a corner, ignoring the looks he can feel every single agent giving him as they pass by, many even stopping just to _stare_.

They take an elevator up, the armed guards parting ways and leaving them alone, and he and Fury ride up in silence, Fury facing forward and Steve half turned to look out the glass of the elevator, oddly missing the old music they used to play while he looks out at the city. There’s just so _much_.

When the elevator comes to a stop, he hears the doors slide open and takes a moment before turning back around, eyes immediately landing on a woman with red hair when he follows Fury out. She’s the brightest thing he’s seen in years, not including the light show outside the building. 

All of the old colors in his head have gone a little dull, he realizes now, even Bucky’s where he’s walking at Steve’s right, dark blue a dimmer shade, brown pants like ones in an old film, eyes not quite the vibrant blue-gray Steve knows they should be. His world had faded, and he hadn’t even realized. For barely just a painful second, he wonders what it would have looked like without a refresher in another seventy years.

“This is Agent Romanoff,” Fury introduces as they walk, Agent Romanoff joining them. Her eyes are like steel and her brow is quirked like she’s some cross of amused and intrigued, but her expression is a mostly blank slate that he can’t read. He’s not...used to that look on a dame- agent. Not even Peggy. The last person that looked at him like that was Bucky, after Zola, after the faraway looks he had changed to _steel_ -

‘ _Yur starin_ ’, _Stevie_ ,’ Bucky says with a smirk in his voice. Steve snaps his eyes forward, but catches Agent Romanoff’s lips quirking up out of the corner of his eye, the smirk he heard in Bucky’s voice out of his other. ‘ _And I thought I was the one with the thing for redheads_.’ Steve tries not to make a face.

They head into a large office, Agent Romanoff behind him, and he keeps himself alert.

“Secure room,” Fury orders at large, and Steve tenses as the windows go dark, almost black against the backdrop of night outside, “Pull up S.H.I.E.L.D. S.S.R. files.”

What Steve thought was just a weirdly placed, large sheet of angled glass on the wall of the left side of the room comes to life in a whirl of white, gray, and electric blue (“ _Like your eyes, when they do that glowy thing, Stevie_ ,” Bucky had said, followed by Dugan snorting. “ _You mean that **creepy** glowy thing?_ ” Bucky had frowned. “ _Shuddup, Dugan. It’s cool. Like blue fireflies_ ,” he’d said, grinning over at Steve. It’d made him feel better about being...what he is now). 

What must be the ‘files’ pop up on the screen, information laid out across the length of it.

Steve takes a few steps forward, eyes quickly scanning over the information. He can feel both Fury and Romanoff’s eyes on him, but he keeps his own on the screen.

The files talk about the Howling Commandos, about him, about his report after capturing Arnim Zola, about Bucky, and about the plane he crashed. 

He swallows, feels the bite of his long nails into his skin. 

It goes on, though, after the things he lasts remembers from before being _cold_ ( _and he’s **still** cold_ ). It talks about Howard looking for him, about Howard, Peggy, and Colonel Phillips starting up and working together to form S.H.I.E.L.D. 

Fury orders the computer to pull up the next batch of files when Steve reaches the end, and Steve still feels eyes on him, but finds that he can't look away.

\-----

Steve stands there when he’s finished reading the last page, eyes on the floor and hands loose at his sides. It only took him an hour to catch up on seventy years worth of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s history (“ _I only got a quick look.” “Well no one’s perfect_.”), to find out that Peggy’s still alive somewhere while everyone else he knew is dead and gone. Bucky’s silent next to him.

He hears Fury shift and his eyes dart up. “How do I know all of that is true?” he asks, slowly tensing again, hyper-aware of the other agent off to his back left. Bucky shifts.

“Talk to Agent Carter,” Fury replies, and Steve’s breath catches in his throat. He forces it to keep going instead of stopping like it wants to.

“In person,” Steve says.

Fury nods once. “In person.”

\--

Fury takes him to a quieter part of New York. Steve sits with him in the back of the black truck with dark windows and keeps his eyes to the window he's next to, watching the old-new city go by and its new people with it. He feels isolation then, not for the first time but for the first time like _this_ , and tries to stifle it down like he always used to, before the serum and after. 

It doesn't work very well.

(Bucky grips his knee. Steve wishes he could feel the heat Bucky no longer has).

When they stop in front of a nice looking brownstone in a neighborhood he and Bucky used to only _dream_ of, he only hesitates a moment before getting out of the truck, and manages to not hesitate at all when Fury leads him up the stairs.

\--

Peggy is old now, _tired_ , is his first thought, but they let him into her room and only keep watch outside of it, give him a chance to talk with her in some semblance of privacy.

“Who’s there?” she asks, voice more frail than he remembers, but still strong in all the ways that matter, expression stern and in no mood to be trifled with. He can’t help his lips curving up, even though his heart is a heavy thing in his chest.

“Hey, Peggy,” he says softly, stepping up to the side of her bed and pulling over a chair to take a seat, letting the faint stretch of street lights illuminate his face. “It’s me.” Her eyes go wide, still the beautiful brown that he remembers. 

Bucky has left him alone for this. 

He’s grateful.

“Steve…?” she asks, voice trembling. 

He smiles a little more, reaching a hand out when she does so she can take his, hold it between bones that he feels like he could snap without even really trying, warm beneath his hands, a warm that his will never be again. He swallows. “Yeah, Peggy. It’s me.”

“You’re- But you- _How are you alive?_ ” she manages, eyes getting shinier and shinier. He can feel her blood pumping quick beneath her thin skin, hear her heart beat fast in his ears in the cage of fragile, brittle bones. He's grateful, suddenly, that Fury left all of those boxes of blood for him. He's not sure he could hold off on feeding on her after seventy years of nothing, not even for Peggy.

He swallows.

“Got frozen,” he replies quietly, watching her take that in, watching her eyes go so _sad_. It hadn’t bothered him too much, before, but now her sadness hits him like a punch to the gut that he can actually _feel_.

“This whole time?” she makes herself ask, just as quiet, voice shaky beyond the effects of age and shock. He nods once and her grip tightens on his hand, as much as she can. “ _Oh, Steve_.”

He makes himself smile again, heart heavier than ever, and she squeezes his hand tighter.

They talk about what happened after Steve crashed the plane, after the war. She tells him about the world, her life, the lives of their friends and his unit. And she tells him about S.H.I.E.L.D.

“I named it after you,” she says, soft and fond in a way she couldn’t really be during the war, and Steve is glad that she can be now, even if it highlights just how much has changed between when he last saw her and now.

His breath catches again and he’s gentle when he squeezes her hand, careful of his nails, careful of his strength. She’s like a bird in his palm, even though she’s never been fragile, not really. Not with her fire and quick wits and confidence, her red lipstick and sure smile. And he misses her in that moment, in a way he didn’t know he _could_ miss someone that’s still right in front of him.

“I’m honored,” he says, a little choked up, because he is. She just shakes her head a little, curls pressed up around the sides of her face by her pillows, framing it in white and gray instead of the brown he remembers. “So, this Fury guy,” Steve says after a minute, “Think I should work for him?”

She cants her head slightly against her pillows, raising an imperious brow. He cracks a small smile. 

“That’s up to you," she says, "Do you want to?”

Steve quirks his lips up, running a thumb over her aged skin. It has more texture, now. “I don’t know what else I would do,” he admits, quieter, like shame. The soldier with nothing, the soldier left to time whose only home is inside his head.

“Whatever you want to,” she says, adding after a moment, eyes locked on his even in the barely lit room, “The world’s changed. There’s so much more and so much less in it than there was. But, even if it takes some more time, you’ll find something. I know you will.”

Steve’s throat tries to close up and he clears it, looking down at their hands. “I don’t know if I can,” he replies quietly.

They’re both silent for a bit after that. She doesn’t try to give him platitudes, respects his need for silence, and he’s beyond grateful. When she starts having a difficult time keeping her eyes open, he gives her hand a gentle squeeze and stands up without effort, rises like air, a specter, unnatural for human bones, letting their physical contact gently slide away.

“I’m glad you’re back,” she manages to say before he reaches the door. He turns around to look at her in the dark that will never be _dark_ for him again.

She’s not smiling, not completely, and there’s something knowing in her eyes again even though realistically, she could never fully understand, not him, not how he is, not his life now. He does notice that she doesn’t say ‘ _I’m glad you’re okay_ ’, though, and for that alone he could love her all over again. He _does_.

He nods once, smiling a little. “I’m glad I got to see you again,” he says softly, and means it, “I’ll come by again sometime.”

“You better,” she says tiredly, giving a yawn behind a gentle hand, “You still owe me that dance,” she says, as prim as she can muster, and he laughs a little, something more like vibrations in his chest than real sound. It feels strange, in a good, bittersweet way.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he returns, and he mostly even means it. If he did miss it, it would be because he was too much of a coward to face her like that.

Her lips quirk like she knows, even now, even with as tired as she is, and Steve waits until she loses the battle to keep her eyes open and on him before turning back for the door and stepping out, meeting Fury out in front of the building, agents trailing down behind him.

“You don’t have to give me your answer right away,” Fury says, standing at the side of the black truck they came in, “Just think about it.”

Steve takes in a breath he doesn’t need and nods once, a little, and follows Fury back into the truck. 

He goes over his conversation with Peggy, the knowledge that Peggy’s even alive, over and over the whole way back.

\-----

“This is _mine?_ ” he asks in disbelief, eyes a little wide as he scans over the apartment.

It’s _huge_. Bigger than his old one by _at least_ half _._ And this isn’t even the biggest _one_ , from what he’d overheard. His eyes catch on a few pieces of Captain America memorabilia and he makes a mental note of it before turning around at the sound of footsteps coming closer.

“It is,” Agent Romanoff confirms, looking around the place for herself, but her eyes say she either doesn’t care or has seen it already. She looks back to him. 

Bucky shifts at his side. Steve tries to not react to it.

“The apartment is paid for by S.H.I.E.LD.,” she informs him, pulling out a small device and handing it to him, “But your back pay has been racking up interest for over the last seventy years. You were never officially declared dead.” She smirks slightly, quick and brief at the joke. Steve stands up straighter and she physically adjusts herself slightly accordingly. He’s sure most would miss it, but his eyes aren’t what they used to be. They're better. “You’re essentially set for life,” she finishes false lightly, and Steve takes the device while making his breathing remain controlled.

He doesn’t know how long that life will be, and frankly, he’d rather not think about the terrifying possibilities. He’s already outlived one life, he can’t handle thinking about outliving another right now.

He doesn’t bother replying, just looks around the room again in the dark, adjusting to the... _size_ of it. He hears her turn to head back for the door, saying, “The buttons behind you on the back wall are the controls for the air conditioning and heating. The blinds are UV proof and the only kind used in the apartment.” She sounds like she’s listing memorized facts. She probably is. "That device is a phone, altered for use with your lack of body heat. Mine and Director Fury's numbers have already been pre-programmed into it. Just select the contact button on the screen and hit 'call' if you need one of us."

She’s down the short hall and gone with the closing of the apartment door before he can think to say anything, listening to the door _click_ closed behind her before he shifts his eyes to the small device’s- _phone's_ screen.

‘ _Red heads_ ,’ Bucky murmurs a little sarcastically. Steve rolls his eyes a little, stepping further in to check around the place. ‘ _I’m glad it went alright with Peggy_ ,’ Bucky says next, and Steve stiffens, deciding to head down the other hall and check out the bedroom.

‘ _Yeah_ ,’ Steve says mentally as he cautiously steps into the nearest bedroom. 

It’s already outfitted with a bed and sheets, much like how the apartment already has a couch, coffee table, and apparently dishes. But it lacks personal touch, _anyone’s_ personal touch. 

He sits on the bed just to mess up the perfect sheets. ‘ _Yeah, it did_.’ He’s not sure if there’s anyone listening in on him. Best to keep his conversations with Bucky to themselves.

He looks at the small device again, hitting a button that lights the whole screen up. He pokes at it with a finger, nail _clacking_ against the surface of the screen. ‘ _So **that's** supposed to be a telephone?_ ’ Bucky asks. Steve tilts his head slightly, studying it.

‘ _I guess so_ ,’ he says, hitting the button again that made it light up. The screen goes black again. ‘ _But it’s not doing anything_.’

‘ _‘Cause you're probably doin’ it wrong_ ,’ Bucky teases. Steve glances up to catch his smirk before looking back down at the screen, lips twitching.

‘ _Probably_ ,’ he agrees, setting the 'phone' on the stand next to the bed before scooting back on the sheets.

‘ _Sun’s comin’ up soon_ ,’ Bucky says, sitting on the edge of the bed. Steve yawns. ‘ _Exhaustin’ day_.’ Steve snorts at that, his smile quickly fading. ‘ _Hey_ ,’ Bucky says softly, reaching a hand forward to brush aside Steve’s bangs. They don’t move, but it makes Steve feel a little better all the same. ‘ _Come with me_ ,’ Bucky says next. Steve’s eyes shift to him and he stares up at Bucky for a moment before closing his eyes, letting reality fall away and following Bucky back into his head.

It’s not hard to do, even with the untrusting surroundings. And if he ends up dying in his sleep, maybe that’s for the better?

He opens his eyes and it’s dark out. He looks to his left and Bucky’s there, grinning down at him. 

‘ _There you go_ ,’ Bucky says, reaching up to brush Steve’s bangs aside.

They move. Steve smiles.


	3. Wars fought and wars lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're not reading wings and didn't see my note, everything I'm writing is going to be slow updating because of my lack of a computer. I'll still be writing, but it's hard and I need a lot of patience to do it on my tablet, not to mention my tablet and ao3 don't really get along, naturally. But I hope you enjoy this chapter and thank you for your patience. (: <3

He’s sitting in the dark of his apartment with his eyes closed and his head back, lost in a place with no time when a knock on his door pulls him out of his head. 

He gets up and walks over, opens it to find Fury standing in the light of the hall and steps to the side and lets him in, taking quick note of the file in his hand before closing the door and following him down the short hall that leads further into his apartment. 

Fury stops at his kitchen table, takes a quick, polite look around before setting the file down on top of it, leaving it closed as he turns around to face him.

“A mission?” Steve asks, because there’s not much else it could be, aside from experiment forms that Fury might cook up to handle ‘liability’ and ‘can’t he held responsible’. It’s been a week since he woke up, and Steve’s honestly surprised a S.H.I.E.L.D. scientist or five hasn’t come calling for him yet.

“We could use you on this,” is all Fury says. 

He doesn’t move from where he’s standing, so Steve follows Bucky over to the table and flips the file open- 

And freezes, sees Bucky do the same out of the corner of his eye and hears him let out a quiet curse.

“Is there anything you can tell us about it?” Fury asks after a silent moment.

Steve lets his nails drag lightly down the paper, over the image of the cube. 

“You should have left it at the bottom of the ocean," he says, and thinks:

_With me._

\--

The sun’s down when they get into Germany, and still down when they get back to the helicarrier, after. The new uniform is…

He shifts slightly in his seat at the round table ( _and isn’t that a joke_ ).

The new suit is _tight_. Uncomfortable. 

Bucky won’t stop laughing at him, and it's worse because Steve is the only one who can _hear_ _him_. 

His new suit isn't the only thing that's uncomfortable. 

“So. You’re the _vampire_ ,” Stark says dramatically, hand gestures and all. 

Steve glances up. 

Bucky stops laughing. 

Agent Romanoff and Doctor Banner are staring at him, too, he knows, can feel it. He can see the one called Thor tilting his head slightly in his periphery and Bucky gives a sigh. ‘ _I know where **this** is going_.’

“'Vampire'?” Thor asks, brows furrowed.

“Oh, yeah, you might not have those, at least not by that name,” Stark says, straightening up a bit with a teasing grin. “They drink blood, can’t go out in the daylight. Fast, strong, sparkly in some cases.” Bucky sends Steve a look that Steve forces himself not to react to. He’s just as confused by that last one as Bucky is.

“No, we do not have those. By any name,” Thor says thoughtfully, looking from Stark to Steve, “You were born this way?”

Steve keeps himself still and opens his mouth to reply, sees Thor's eyes dart down to his teeth-

“Nope,” Stark cuts him off before Steve can answer, “Lab experiment. Test subject. _Still_ trying to figure out the vampiric origins,” he says, eyes darting back to Steve again before dropping down to his mouth, too. 

Steve hears Banner shift and his heart rate spike slightly. 

Steve snaps his mouth shut with a sharp _clack._

“ _If_ you’re done,” Fury says as he re-enters the room, drawing all eyes to him. 

Well, most. Steve takes a moment to actually look away from the side of Stark’s face while Bucky stays glaring holes into it.

“We _do_ have a situation," Fury continues. 

Maybe it's better that Steve never got the chance to say anything.

\-----

“You’re a _laboratory experiment, Rogers_. Everything ‘ _special_ ’ about you came out of a _bottle_ ,” Stark doesn’t quite spit. 

Steve curls his fingers enough to dig his nails into the leather fingers of his gloves, can hear Stark’s _pulse_ beating loud and hot and fast, can smell the adrenaline and _fear_.

“Put on the suit,” Steve says. 

Stark stares at him. “You want to go a few rounds?” he antagonizes, but Steve hears his pulse start to settle. Stark finds battle a more comfortable method of settling things, maybe, something familiar. 

They grudgingly have _that_ in common.

Steve bares his sharp teeth a bit and Stark’s pulse rockets up a few notches again, eyes widening a little as they dart down and then back up. 

From what Steve hears, Stark's not the only one.

“ _Put on the suit_ ,” Steve and Bucky say in unison, just before there’s an _explosion_ -

\-----

“You going to be able to fight?” Agent Barton asks as they near New York. The jet is loud and Steve can feel the hum and vibrations of the turbines all the way up into his bones. “It _is_ daylight out,” he adds, glancing over his shoulder from the left pilot seat.

“I can fight in the shadows,” Steve says, gripping his shield straps tighter. Bucky shifts at his left. 

Agent Barton muffles a snort and looks to Agent Romanoff, who rolls her eyes before Clint looks back. Steve ignores it for now (after the battle, Barton will show him a piece of a movie - on his _phone,_ andBucky would be _ecstatic_ if he could _-..._ \- called _300_ and Steve will understand the inside joke, the snort, if find the scene...strange).

“And in the sun, if need be," Steve continues, "At least for about forty minutes. I’ll space out my exposure.”

Agent Barton snorts again at the mention of 'space' (at least Steve gets the reason for _that_ one, Alien Invasion and all) while he and Agent Romanoff both take a good look at him. 

Agent Barton gives him a nod before turning back around.

\-----

He loses his helmet at one point and that’s more skin for the sun to burn. Bucky’s tense at his side, has been the whole time, angry. Steve knows there’s nothing Bucky can do besides call out incoming hits from behind Steve and to his sides, and it frustrates him.

‘ _Steve! Eight ‘o clock!_ ’ Bucky shouts suddenly, and Steve brings his shield around just in time to block a Chitauri bow staff, knocking it up and ramming his shield into the alien's throat, gritting his teeth against the pain of the sun on his skin.

It’s then he has the brief thought that maybe Bucky has also taken up the task of his new body’s version of extra sensory awareness, covering the parts of Steve’s senses that go beyond what _he_ _**thinks**_ he can only see or hear or smell. It's not like he’s human anymore. If his hearing, strength, sight, all of his senses are magnified, maybe what he _thinks_ are his limits...aren't. He got to test it some before the ice, took on a few dares from the guys, but they were usually so busy, he-

‘ _Three o-clock!_ ’ 

Steve lets the thought go for now and spins back around.

\-----

‘ _You’re startin’ to look like a crispy critter_ ,’ Bucky says, only half joking, the rest stern.

‘ _Just a few more minutes, Buck_ ,’ Steve replies, running down the street to head off another group of Chitauri.

‘ _At least run through the fucking **buildings**_ ,’ Bucky complains, keeping pace at his left.

Steve darts into the shadows when he finds them and Bucky’s hackles go down a bit. Steve doesn’t have to say that it feels like a blissful balm on his skin for a few seconds at time for Bucky to know it. 

He catches some of the shadows clinging to his last step before his boots hit sunlit pavement again and he has the brief thought that that hasn't happened since the tail end of _1944, when_ \- 

He heads off a group of enemies and tries to stop remembering the past.

It doesn't help that he lets ( _wants_ ) those memories to keep covering his left like the ghost his mind gave him in the ice that's been with him since he crashed the plane: a friend, a guardian, his only stable, reliable constant since 1944.

\-----

“We’re getting shawarma,” Stark announces to Agent Romanoff and Barton as they walk over, “And we need to get crispy critter here out of the sun before he combusts,” he adds, jerking a thumb Steve’s direction. 

Bucky crosses his arms. 

‘ _I hate him_ ,’ he states. 

Steve’s lips twitch even though it hurts, pulls at taut skin.

\-----

_The thing is, no one told him it would hurt this much. And at first he thinks it’s laughable. He and pain have gone hand in hand since he was **five.** The serum pumped straight into his muscles and blood stream isn’t so bad, he’s dealt with worse (a broken nose, blood running down his chin and dropping to the dirt ground in small bursts of clouds, pain shooting up and spreading all throughout his face-)_

_Point is, the shock of the foreign chemicals to his system forcing him more awake than he already was, like three mugs of coffee (“Down the hatch!” and they both down the last of their coffee like shots-), are something he can deal with._

_It’s the light that does it._

_It’s slow at first, like he’s standing near a stove, a **blinding** stove, then like he’s standing **over** the stove, then like he’s been out in the sun too long. When he starts to scream, that’s the point that it’s like he’s **in** the oven, like a witch in a house made of candy, his mind deliriously supplies, of all things. He didn’t think anyone could live through something that hot. The witch didn't. _

_But he **does, somehow.**_

**_And he tells them to keep going._ **

_Then it gets hotter, **brighter** , and he didn’t think that was **possible** \- It gets so hot he **can’t** think, can’t scream, can’t make a sound because everything’s drowned out by what feels like sunlight scorching through his veins, hotter than fire, hotter than anything he’s ever felt before, even that one time he burned his finger on a literal red hot stove. It gets so bright it burns through his eyelids and any noise he could possibly make is trapped in his chest, the tendrils that manage to snake past getting caught up in his throat, shredded and diced into a million tiny pieces that filter out into no sound at all. The light cancels out the traces of his voice and he’s burning so hot he **freezes** -_

_And then the light’s gone and the heat’s gone but he still feels like he’s **freezing** and he can’t think or hear **anything** \- Everything’s white behind his eyelids, light trapped where it seeped through in the first place-_

_Then the pod is opening and he’s being helped out and he can’t feel his skin, feels pressure but no heat, no cold, and his eyelids lift._

_The room is cut like crystal, sharp and clear and everything edged in the faintest rainbow glimmer. Peggy’s lipstick is shining a shade of red so stark and vibrant he’s not sure there’s a word for the color._

_It takes him a few minutes to realize that the room’s lights are all off and the only illumination is coming from the slowly dulling glow of the abandoned pod he emerged from and the few sparks still flying from the machines lining the perimeter of the room._

_-_

_When he runs up the stairs to give chase to an enemy spy, he cuts his lips on eight sharp points in his mouth when his steps pound, teeth feeling elongated and the tiny stabs minor, sharp pains. The smell of blood from Doctor Erskine’s bullet wounds and the injured enemy spy are still stuck in his nose, his head. It’s all he can smell until he’s outside on the street, jumping cars and leaping fences, blocking the over bright sunlight with his hand, bright like a bulb going off near his face, and ignoring the sting of it on his skin._

_Then Doctor Erskine’s smell falls away and Steve follows the other scent on the air, too caught up in the thrill of the chase and the prickling pins and needles and the growing burning of his **skin** to ask himself **how** -_

Steve jerks awake, room blacked out and stark against the sunlight of his dream. He lays there for a minute, Bucky sitting on the edge of the bed in his periphery.

‘ _You miss it_ ,’ Bucky states. 

Steve’s throat goes a little dry. 

‘ _Sometimes_ ,’ he mentally replies. 

Bucky turns his head to look down at him. ‘ _You **can** still go out in it, you know_.’

‘ _Yeah_ ,’ Steve agrees, ‘ _But it’s_ -’

‘ _Not the same_ ,’ Bucky finishes for him, lips quirking up, ‘ _I know._ ’

‘ _Only because **I** know_.’ Steve smirks back, pushing himself up to sit with his back to the headboard. He stares down at his lap, hands resting there, trails his eyes over his long nails. Every time he tried cutting them, they just grew back. Made gloves an interesting hassle. ‘ _I miss being human_ ,’ he says after a while. He’s not sure how long. His concept of time was kind of ruined, being frozen for seventy years. ‘ _I miss 1944. And I miss **you**_.’

‘ _ **I know**_ ,’ Bucky says. 

Steve glances up briefly to see him smirking. His own lips twitch.

He lets out a sigh, focusing on the movement of his chest as he lets out the air. ‘ _I don’t want to live forever_ ,’ he confesses, soft and quiet and almost inaudible even in his own head, ‘ _I don’t want to live forever all alone, either_.’

Bucky shifts his hand over so it’s resting next to Steve’s leg on top of the sheets, just shy of touching.

Steve wishes he could feel it, tries not to let the ache in the center of his chest swallow him whole.

( _And it’s been trying for so long now_ ).

\-----

There’s a knock on his door a month later, and it can only be a few people considering the time of night and the fact that he still doesn’t know anyone in this century (aside from Peggy). He listens anyway, getting a feel for the familiar heartbeat and smells coming through the door.

He walks over and opens it.

Agent Romanoff is a red beacon in the light of the hall, hair a little longer now but still wavy at the sides of her face. She smells like guns and wind, and if Steve thought about it, it suits her.

“Tired of being cooped up yet?” she asks.

Steve raises an eyebrow slightly and her lips curve up a little into something dangerous. 

For all that _he’s_ the predator, sometimes she makes _him_ feel like the prey.

\-----

He starts training with Agent Roma- Natasha. He's faster than her, by far, stronger, but after their first, slowed down (for him) round, she tells him he, "lacks real skill and finesse."

"Your training was listed as Basic and what you picked up along the way, correct?" she asks, standing opposite him on the training mat.

Steve nods, trying to swallow back the memories.

She inclines her head slightly. "I will teach you control and technique," she says, "And expand your repertoire with styles that will suit your strengths and compensate for your weaknesses."

"So you're going to make me even more deadly," Steve states. 

Natasha's lips curve up a little into something _sharp_. 

"I will make it so that you hold up better next to Thor in every battle and don't come away with a wound in your side," she states.

‘ _She has a point_ ,’ Bucky says from off to the side.

‘ _I don't want to be even **more** dangerous, Buck_ ,’ he mentally says back, dropping his eyes to the ground like he’s thinking.

‘ _It might come in handy_ ,’ Bucky counters, ‘ _Besides, you want to live, don’t you? Or at least get up to par enough to go out on missions and continue ignoring the world?_ ’

Natasha charges him and Steve doesn’t get the chance to reply.

For that, he's grateful.

\-----

It takes a year, but Fury finally says, "I hear you're an excellent student," and Steve raises a brow. He's _never_ been an excellent student. "And I hear you're ready."

The various techniques only took a few months to memorize, but trying not to crush Natasha and the other agents either brave or curious enough to volunteer for sparring with him was a battle all its own. He knows the latter half of his snapping at Natasha out of fear over it got on her nerves more than once.

Steve keeps his eyes trained on Fury. 

"Do you _feel_ ready?" Nick asks.

Steve doesn't blink, doesn't look for Bucky's opinion at his side. "I do."

Fury studies him for a long moment before sitting forward in his chair. "Bring up Lemurian Star files," he says to the room.

Steve turns around to get a look at his first S.H.I.E.L.D. mission.

\--

It goes like clockwork, and he manages not to crush anyone's skull in the rush of adrenalin.

\-----

" _So how's my favorite, sparkly creature of the night?_ "

"Stark," Steve greets quietly three days later. Bucky rolls his eyes. He's not even going to ask how Tony got the number to this channel, it'd be pointless. He will ask, however, "Heard you resolved the Mandarin case and saved a lot of people."

" _Don't let the papers fool you, Rogers_ ," Tony scoffs, " _I'm still a narcissistic_ _asshole_."

"I'm sure the city of New York would agree with you," he replies, crouched low behind the corner of the warehouse, what should be a freezing wind feels like a gentle breeze at his cheeks and snow is the barest _crunch_ underfoot. He's tempted to take his boots off just so it’s _completely_ silent.

The guard gets closer, _closer_ -

Steve rushes out in a blur, grabs the man around the mouth and his shoulder, giving his head a sharp _twist_ \- He carries the body around the corner to avoid leaving a trail in the snow and darts along the length of the warehouse.

" _What are you doing? Was that bone popping? Are you busy turning others into children of the night? **Can** you turn others into children of the night?_ "

Steve rolls his eyes, grabbing the gun that appears around the next corner and going for the mouth of the man holding it. "I'm working," he settles on, giving that guard's head a similar _twist_.

Stark hums. " _What are you wearing?_ " he asks seductively low in Steve’s ear through the comm link, and Steve can hear the _smirk_ in his voice. 

Bucky snorts.

"Dark blue," Steve says in a hush, pressing his free ear to the heavy metal door and listening for heartbeats and boots, opening it when he hears none.

" _Ooo_ ," Stark says, intrigued, " _I bet it really brings out your eyes. What colors are you wearing **under** it? The rest of the red and white?_ "

Bucky snorts again before making himself go quiet at Steve’s quick look, staying at Steve’s six.

"I don’t think we know each other well enough for me to say," Steve replies lightly, pausing at the top of a set of metal stairs and listening, then silently heading down.

" _Playing hard to get?_ " Tony asks, " _I don't usually put in the effort, but I'll go on a third date just for **you** , Sparkles_, _so you know I mean it_."

Steve rolls his eyes. "You're counting this as a date?" he asks, voice dropping off lower than a whisper at the end while slowing to a stop at another corner, cement practically room temperature at his back, would be even without the unnecessary insulation built into his stealth suit.

Tony scoffs quietly but doesn't say anything more, picking up on the drop of Steve’s voice, and Steve listens to the two heartbeats and conversation at the other end of the hall. It's in Russian, so he can't understand it, but his comm is recording it. He'll have it translated when he gets back.

The building's been _surprisingly_ under guarded so far.

He rushes the guards, their movements slowing as he pushes his speed, grabbing them both by the mouths before their hands can even brush their guns, the tail end of the breath used for their conversation caught between his hands and pushed back past their lips. He slams them both back and down to the floor, making sure the backs of their skulls hit first. He pauses briefly to check that they're no longer puffing breath against the edges of his fingers before standing back up and listening. 

" _Where **are** you anyway?_ " Stark asks when Steve lets out a breath to let him know it's clear.

"Somewhere cold," he replies, listening at the door just passed the guards before getting it open and carrying them both inside.

He sets them down as it closes, straightening back up. The computers should be-

He pauses, eyes locking on the strange... _pod_ in the center of the room, wires pouring out of the bottom like roots of a tree, disappearing into the floor. It reminds him of a slimmer, colder looking version of the one that helped make him what he is.

He walks over to it, _around_ it, eyes roaming over the old, scratched up metal, the back - full of more wires spilling out like tresses, two huge wires plugging into the far back wall - the open door. He reaches up a hand to trace his fingers over what turns out to be cold glass, leaving faint finger streaks in the frost of the small window of sorts near the top. His eyes drop down to a metal label below the window, only a little hard to read from what looks like age, drags his fingertips and nails across the cold grooves of the letters: 

'W I N T E R S O L D I E R'.

He circles back around to the front, vaguely aware that Tony’s gone quiet again, and walks over to the computers, eyes stuck on the empty inside of the pod.

" _What's with the silent treatment,_ " Stark stage whispers in his ear.

Steve drags his eyes from the pod to the computers, pulling the USB out of one of the compartments on his belt and plugging it in, the computer screen blinking to life before files start flying up the screen.

"I found something strange," he says.

" _Hey, now_ ," Stark chides, "' _Strange' isn't always **bad**_ -"

"And _empty_ ," he cuts Tony off, eyes back on the pod.

It's quiet for a moment, before-

" _Oh. Well, that's a different matter. From my experience, it'd be good to hurry up whatever sneaky business you're doing for Fury and leave before **whatever** was in it **comes** **back**_."

 _My thoughts exactly_ , Steve thinks, turning back to the screen.

He pulls the USB out once it's finished downloading and traces his steps back up to the first floor, keeping his eyes and ears open for any movement, anything out of the ordinary and...whatever might have been in that _pod_. 

Bucky's been quiet, but Steve’s not sure what to think so maybe he doesn’t, either.

Steve gets the door open to the outside-

‘ _Steve-_ ’ Bucky starts.

Steve ducks, something just grazing over the top of his helmet and embedding itself into the _metal_ _door_ behind him. He backtracks in a _flash_ and slams the door shut, running for the opposite end of the warehouse. He hears the door wrenched open roughly two seconds later and pushes himself to run faster, listening intently for boots on cement, breath, a heartbeat-

He doesn't hear any of them.

‘ _Up_ -’ Bucky warns.

Steve throws himself sideways and rolls, something small and blurry and metal embedding itself into the cement where his sternum just was, rolling back up onto his feet and spinning, throwing his shield-

Whoever- _Whatever_ _it is_ dodges faster than a human ( _fast like him-_ ), and between that moment and the figure training a gun on him, Steve gets a glimpse of it-

Long hair, mask, metal arm, black, lots of black, armed to the _teeth_ -

He stares a second too long, gets a bullet in the shoulder and side with the shots echoing off the tall metal walls of the warehouse as the price and reaches out for his shield, ducking and rolling behind the cover of a steel crate instead when the man ( _is it?_ ) knocks it off its return trajectory with his left hand, metal _clanging_ on metal.

Stark's still silent, Bucky's still silent. 

This might be the longest Steve's gone without a voice in his ear _or_ his head.

There's still no sound of boots, but he adds his own speed to the attacker's and waits for air displacement above his head before throwing out a fist that connects with a leg and leaps over the crate in the opposite direction of the man, eyes locking with goggles briefly through his own mask's tinted lenses and then he drops down to the ground on the other side of the container, still no sound when a gun pops out over the edge, trained on where he _would_ have been if he _ran_. 

He jumps up and grabs the hand and arm attached to it ( _gives slightly_ \- _flesh_ -), turning and pulling them over before swinging them down like a sack from over his shoulder. The man lands hard on his back before flipping over and firing his gun.

Steve barely dodges the bullet and twists the gun out of the man’s grip, letting out an ' _oof_ ' of breath when a boot collides with his chest and sends him flying back, gun flying out if his hand and back hitting hard against the container with a loud _thud_. He ducks to dodge a knife and manages to wrench that away too, kicking the figure in the chest and sending _him_ sprawling back several feet.

Steve runs right after him, swinging a punch that gets blocked with a forearm.

They fight hand to hand, Steve barely keeping up with the blows and blocking but managing to match the man for speed (or maybe the _man_ is matching _him-_ ). He dodges another punch and moves in close, throwing his center of gravity around to swing his legs up around the man's neck, wincing at the grip of the metal hand on his thigh as he swings himself around, using his body weight and momentum to throw the man to the ground as he lands on his own feet and jumps back.

The man rises after a moment, resuming a fighting stance as he turns to face Steve and-

"... _Bucky?_ "

Bucky's face stares back at him, mask and goggles gone and blinking once, slowly, eyes glowing a sharp, white-blue in the dim of the warehouse-

"Who the hell is Bucky?" Bucky asks, before _charging_.

Steve just barely dodges the punch, grabbing the one that's _not_ thrown with a metal fist to stop it. He has to _strain_ to do it. " _You are!_ " he half yells, blocking a kick with his own leg, "Bucky, stop!"

Bucky pauses for a moment, but then he bares his teeth and they're-

Steve goes flying back with a metal fist to the chest, back landing hard on the cement as he skids to a top, choking out a breath he doesn’t need.

The doors open then, the front _and_ the back, men pouring in and forming a circle around him with, from what he counts, ten guns trained on him. At least that solves the question of the lack of security. That _and_ -

He sits up slowly, but when the guns all raise a little higher he stops there, sat in the middle of the warehouse.

"Mask," one of them says, heavily accented, "Off."

One of the others says something quick in Russian, eyes darting nervously to Bucky who's just standing there, watching almost... _curiously_.

The first man snaps something back in Russian as well before redirecting his attention back to Steve and barking out in English, " _Mask! Off!_ "

Steve raises his hands slowly, half of the men's eyes focusing on his nails and _all_ of them sporadically darting to Bucky before Steve starts undoing the straps on his helmet, slowly pushing it up and off and setting it on the ground, listening it roll slightly across the cold cement floor amidst the soft gasps while his bangs fall loose and slightly damp across his forehead, almost into his eyes. 

His eyes must be glowing again. 

He focuses them back on Bucky. 

" _Cap? Cap! You better fight back!_ " he hears in his ear and tunes it out. If he's going to die here, he might as well be focused on a familiar face (that's _real_ \- God, _**he's**_ _**real**_ -)

‘ _Steve_ ,’ other Bucky says, and Steve doesn’t look, but Bucky sounds like he understands.

"Bucky," Steve says simply, and maybe for the first time since he's woken up, he's only talking to the _real one_.

The guns take aim. 

He hears their fingers start to pull back the triggers, the soft _shush_ and _clickclickclickclick_ of metal sliding against metal in his ears, of mechanisms _clicking_ into place when he just _found_ _**Bucky**_ _again_.

But he keeps his eyes on Bucky, so he doesn't miss when Bucky's own eyes widen fractionally, lips shaping his own name just before he tears all the men apart.


	4. Lost stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I know it's been a while. I haven't forgotten about this I just got sucked in by a mermaid au that's damn _determined_ to get done as soon as possible. [/facehands]  
>  Short chapter. I was going to make it longer but I mostly just wanted their reactions to what happened separate.  
> 

Winter Soldier runs.

Only glances at the man for a brief moment before he's putting on speed and running out the door, past the knife mark in it and out into the snow and trees. He hears a name shouted, the same one (" _Bucky!_ "), runs faster like his handlers are about to catch hold of him by the neck and drag him _down_ _down_ _down_ -

He hears the faint sounds of someone following him ( _ **him**_ ) and tears his boots off, sheds his vest, leaves countless weapons on his person behind so he can run _faster_ , run silent with his bare feet in the knee-high white, just enough of a boost to get _away_ -

-

He stops a while after the sounds following him stop, opens his lungs back up and tries scenting the air, holds the breath in while he analyzes and _listens_ -

Nothing.

Just snow, trees, wildlife, the barest hint of himself.

He leans back against the nearest tree, mind going five miles a minute. He tilts his head back and takes in the air, lets a breath out slow and clear in front of his face-

_"Look, Stevie."_

_"What-"_

_Someone turns towards him, voice distorted. He blows a breath in that someone's face, fog puffing out of his mouth like a wolf in winter, warm. The other person leans back, waving a hand in front of their face._

_"I can smoke in the winter no matter how little money we got." Feels his face stretch in a weird way. The other person huffs a breath, their own fogging out warm into the air like a dragon, thinks he might see a smile on their lips as they slowly sharpen into focus, everything else a blur. They're pale._

_"Yeah," that someone says, smile stretching, their voice becoming clearer, **deep** , "Whatever you say, B-"_

_A hand reaching out towards him-_

" _ **BUCKY!**_ "

He slams his head back into the tree trunk, opening his mouth on a silent scream as he grabs at his head, snow dropping from the branches above and dropping into mounds on the snow around him with a _thudthump_ , making him jump sharply, eyes shooting open wide.

He should report to his handlers. They're expecting him. He went against orders.

( _he saved a target he saved a target he saved a target he saved St_ -)

Something floats past his nose and his eyes dart up.

Stars are falling.

Flakes drift down, slow and carefree from the night sky between the naked branches to touch down to the snow he's standing in, soft like lashes against his cheeks when they light on his skin.

" _It's really somethin',"_ someone says, voice hushed next to his ear, taller. On another hill far from here. _"Isn't it, B___?"_

He stares up at the sky.

"Yeah," he blows out, mostly breath and voice a bare whisper from disuse, "Sure is, Stevie."

His breath doesn't fog the air.

\-----

"Blown up," Fury says flatly.

"Yes, Sir," Steve replies.

Fury doesn’t shift in his chair.

Steve keeps himself still as a statue. He can do that now.

Bucky's just as still at his side.

"Says here in the forensics report that there was _nothing_ left."

"Yes, Sir."

"Not even a piece of a shell casing," Fury says in mild disbelief.

"It was a pretty big blast, Sir," Steve replies.

Fury raises an eyebrow.

Steve keeps his eyes trained on Fury's.

"Dismissed."

Steve turns and exits the office, heading straight for the elevator.

Natasha steps in when it stops at medical.

"Gym," she orders.

" _Confirmed_ ," the automated voice replies.

The elevator resumes heading down.

Steve waits, but she doesn’t say anything.

They ride the elevator in silence.

It slows to a stop a few moments later and the doors slide open. Natasha steps out.

"Be careful, Steve," she says, pausing to look at him over her shoulder, eyes unreadable.

He and Bucky watch her turn back around and start walking down the hall as the doors start to slide closed.

Steve keeps his breathing steady and even.

Bucky doesn’t move at his side.

\--

He gets his apartment door open and sets his shield down against a wall, heading down the hall and into the kitchen, opening the fridge and grabbing a blood packet off the top shelf. He turns and grabs a cup off of one of the shelves in the sectioned kitchen wall to his left, pouring the blood into it and sticking it in the microwave.

He stops, takes the cup back out and drinks half of it down, cringing at the taste.

He finishes it and washes the glass out in the sink, heads for his bedroom after, undoing the straps on his uniform on the way there. He crams his uniform into the washer and gets it started before heading into his bedroom, sitting down on the edge of his bed in his underwear.

He lays down on top of the comforter and slips a hand under his pillow, closing his eyes to the gray light of predawn starting to glow soft around the edges of his blinds at the other end of the room. His fingers brush the small, metal rectangle and he traces his fingertip across the letters, can see them perfectly in his mind.

'W I N T E R S O L D I E R'

Steve takes in a slow breath and curls his fingers around it, holds it safe and secure in his palm and remembers Bucky's glowing eyes, how they widened slightly as he mouthed:

'B U C K Y'

Steve knows if he opens his eyes, Bucky will be there, laying across from him.

For the second time in seventy years, he's forced to acknowledge that that's not really Bucky at all.

\-----

The next night, Steve requests all of the files containing any information related to ‘W I N T E R S O L D I E R’ under the guise that he’s focusing on unsolved cases that could tie into his former mission in Russia.

Turns out, there’s not that many.

Half of them are speculation at best, and the ones that _are_ fact scarcely contain any information at all, let alone anything _useful_.

He ends up looking through all of the files three times to make sure he has them memorized before heading back to his apartment.

He’s not called in before dawn, so he sleeps.

\-----

He jolts awake, eyes flashing past the window as he scans the room to find what woke him, briefly taking note that the light behind the blinds is a barely there gray before his eyes catch on black-

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve breathes.

Bucky steps forward, like Steve saw him in the warehouse, but his face is visible, eyes glowing that same shade Steve saw, framed by long hair-

‘ _Stop looking for me_ ,’ Bucky orders, low and dangerously soft. Steve shakes his head a little.

“I can’t do that, Buck,” he replies softly.

Bucky moves in a flash and then he’s _there_ , towering _down over Steve_ \- He’s bigger than he was during the war, Steve notes absently, before it. He’s so much bigger, closer to Steve’s size now than anything.

‘ _You don’t have the right_ ,’ Bucky hisses, sharp teeth visible in the dark, whiter against his skin, ‘ _You let me fall in the first place_.’

Steve closes his eyes, and when he opens them a moment later, Bucky’s sitting on the edge of the bed, smaller again, dark blue peacoat almost black in the barely there light of the room, would be if Steve couldn’t see the colors as bright as his eyes let him.

Steve sits up and hunches forward, bringing his hands up to stare at them, at the length of his nails for a moment before lowering his face down into palms.

‘ _Why do you make me say these things, Steve?_ ’ Bucky asks quietly. Steve stays like that for another minute before lowering his hands down to his lap. He looks up from the darkness of his palms to Bucky in front of him, looks at him with his eyes that are brighter now that Steve’s seen the original’s again. They’re no longer dull. His clothes aren’t, either.

“Because it’s what he would say...isn’t it?” he returns, quieter.

Bucky’s eyes are a seventy year old kind of sadness, one that resonates with its origin deep inside Steve’s chest, and he _aches_.

\-----

He pulls his hat down further as he comes to a stop, reads the numbers on the building again, dark but clear, to make sure they match up with the ones he’d memorized off of the computer and looks up, takes a moment to make sure he’s found the right windows in the right apartment.

The blinds open after a minute and he backs up, slips under the deep shadows of the doorway of the building behind him and keeps his eyes up on the window, watches Captain America look out it for a long moment before retreating back into his own shadows.

 _There you are_ , Winter Soldier thinks.

 _Answers_.


	5. I owe you a love song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Kay (Stringlish) for betaing this too. ;-; Also super sorry for the delay. A mermaid au was pretty persistent on getting finished like _now_ so _everything_ got put on old. But it's finished and up now so I can CATCH UP ON EVERYTHING ELSEEEE FDJKSFJSL. I may have also slightly planned out a serial killer au? ??? OTL

The sound of his phone ringing interrupts the _scratchscratch_ of his pencil on paper and Steve sighs, hits answer and then speaker, nail _clacking_ against the lit screen, stretching a long shadow from his hand across the page.

“Hello,” he says, tilting his head a little to adjust for the angle of the drawing.

“ _Forensics came back on the warehouse explosion_ ,” Fury opens with. Steve keeps most of his focus on his drawing. “ _They found bare traces of one of approximately **three** of our explosives in the crater_.”

Steve hums distractedly, tilting his head back the other way and then turning the sketchbook on the table, shading upside down. “That’s strange,” he says idly, frowning a little and leaning down a little closer to the page to get in a tight spot.

It’s quiet.

 _Scratchscratchscratchscratch_ -

A _sigh_ across the tiny speakers.

“ _I don’t suppose you’ll just **tell** me what you’re hiding if I just **ask?**_ ” Fury asks.

“Can’t say I know what you’re talking about, Sir,” Steve replies, sitting back up a little and spinning the sketchbook around, hunching back down again.

“ _You know_ ,” Fury starts, “ _The history books never said Captain America was a liar_.”

Steve sits up a little, shoulders straightening and pencil digging in a little deeper into the paper.

“Who’s lying now?” he asks, focusing more on the conversation.

Fury treats him a little bit like a dirty bomb about to go off and like he’s made of glass, and like he doesn’t know what to do with something dangerous except try and keep it under his thumb.

It’s grating.

Silence.

“ _What is it you think we’re lying about, Captain?_ ”

Steve hums quietly.

“Sounds like something a liar would ask,” he replies, glancing at his phone. _Steve would know_.

“ _If you’re talking about the bugs in your apartment you **removed**_ ,” Fury says, “ _Those were just a precaution_.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. Maybe he’ll let Fury think that’s all that’s wrong.

Another sigh pulls him out of his thoughts.

He looks back down at his drawing.

“ _Rogers_ -”

“I have to go,” Steve cuts him off, reaching over and ending the call with a _clack_ , eyes still on his drawing.

He sets his pencil down and pushes his chair back, gets up and heads for the shower, sees Bucky out of the corner of his eye staring down at himself.

\--

Captain America retreats down the hall and enters a room on the left, then closes the door. He waits until he hears water running before reaching up and trying to lift the window.

It doesn’t budge.

He digs his nails in slowly and gets it to lift with a quiet _pop_ , pausing to listen and then sliding it up when he still hears water, eyes darting around. A cat _mreow_ s down at the other end of the alley, blood pumping calm and steady, and he slips inside, pulling a rock out of his pocket and placing it between the window and the sill. He slides the window down and rests it on top, propped open.

He moves further into the apartment, looks over the furniture centered around the fireplace, the sparse kitchen, the glasses and mugs stacked in the wall-shelf, the photoprints leaned in their frames against the lower half of a wall. From what he’s learned, the Captain has been awake from his ice for a year, but the apartment is sparse, impersonal, barely lived in. The chance of interference is high, if the Captain is maintained similar to how he was. There will be scheduled check-ins.

He spots a phone and book on the table and walks over, focuses on the sound of the water for a moment before stopping at the table and tapping on the phone, nail _clacking_ faintly against the screen.

They’ve gotten longer. And the phone screen works without bodyheat.

He checks previous calls, all listed as: _From Unknown_ and reverses his steps, shuts the screen off, and moves over to the book.

And stops.

Stares.

It’s himself, what little of his reflection he’s seen, reaching out to him from the paper, eyes wide and one hand slipping off a steel rail, miles and miles stretching out below him in the snow-

 

_The rail’s cold._

_It’s absurd. But in between the terror his heart’s pumping out through his veins, that’s what he thinks:_

_The rail’s cold._

_Then **he’s** stepping out after him with a, “ **Hold on!** ” and the idiot’s gonna get himself **killed** but he’s **selfish** and **stupidly, stupidly glad that** -_

_That St-_

_That he cares that much for Bu-_

_As much as he does for Ste-_

_**He** reaches out and he tries to reach back and-_

_“ **BUCKY!** -”_

 

His body gives a slight jerk and he blinks hard, eyes focusing back on the drawing.

A door creaks and he freezes.

The sound of the water has stopped.

He doesn’t hear footsteps but he sees Captain America enter his periphery, walk past him and plop down into the chair pulled out at the table with a sigh, towel wrapped around his waist.

He glances over and Ste- Captain America’s staring down at the drawing, expression and eyes caught somewhere between recall and empty. Something inside him doesn’t like it, but he can’t place why, so he pushes it aside for later analyzing. The Captain isn’t reacting like he thought he would. All of his calculations and thoughts are incorrect?

“You changed,” the Captain says softly, eyes still down on the drawing.

Winter Soldier frowns slightly, trying to understand the context of the words. He’s saved the trouble.

“It’s probably just my wishful thinking,” the Captain continues, “You only ever show up in your Howling Commandos uniform or...or what I saw him in. Maybe it’s just me wanting to see him as neither of those things,” he adds, quieter, “Not as a memory and not as...as what they did to him.”

The Captain brings his hands up and Winter Soldier tenses, but he just drops his face into them and scrubs it before sliding his long nailed fingers back through his messy wet hair, gripping it with his eyes squeezed shut tight.

“Nothing to say?” the Captain asks, blinking his eyes open and staring down at the tabletop, “No taunts? No scolding?” He sounds...resigned. Winter Soldier opens his mouth and nothing comes out for a moment-

“Steve,” he says, surprising himself. The Captain closes his eyes again. “Steve,” he tries out, coming out softer than he intends.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut, face crumpling. It pulls at something inside of him-

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve says, voice cracking. He slides his hands back over his face, hunching down, the backs of his fingers _thunking_ quietly against the table when Steve doubles over.

It pulls _harder_.

Steve doesn’t think he’s here.

He reaches out, touches the tips of his fingers to the top of Steve’s hair, feels all the individual strands slide slick against his fingertips and pushes them back through, nails like a comb, smoothing out the mess of it.

Steve sucks in a choked breath and Bucky freezes.

“Buck…?” Steve asks, but Winter Soldier is already moving-

Steve whips around, is out of his chair and at the window in a flash, but he’s gone, just the sound of a cat at the other end of the alley and the faint smell of... _Bucky_.

Steve bows his head, hands braced on the windowsill, and closes his eyes, sight catching on something when he opens them again and starts to lift his head-

He reaches over and picks it up, turning the rock a little in the light of the streetlight, eyes widening a little before he has to blink a few times to stave off the sting at the backs of them.

 

_“ **Steve**.”_

_He blinks slowly._

_“ **Steve!** ” he hears, a whisper, and rolls over, lifting his head to look towards his window._

_“ **Buck…?** ” he asks, pushing himself up in bed, arms wobbling under the strain. He hears the window scrape quietly as it slowly slides open and watches Bucky set a rock down, slipping inside and then slowly lowering the window to rest on top of it for an easy getaway._

_“Don’t get up, ya doof,” Bucky whispers, coming over quietly, “You’re supposed to be **resting**.”_

_“I **was** ,” Steve replies indignantly, “Until **someone** showed up at my window at- What time is it?” he asks, face scrunching up. _

_Bucky scoffs. “Nevermind that,” he says with a wave of his hand, “I wanted to see how you were.”_

_Steve sighs quietly but he’s already scooting over, making room for Bucky. “I’m **fine** ,” he replies, then huffs when Bucky just gives him a **look** , leaning up on an elbow on the bed. He pokes a finger to Steve’s chest and Steve crumbles back down to the bed like a bunch of falling bricks._

_“ **Mmhmm** ,” Bucky hums disbelievingly, “Yer **fine**.” _

_Steve huffs again but stays down, looking up at Bucky through the narrow slant of streetlight from outside. “Yer gonna get into trouble,” he mumbles, eyes already closing again, but he’s **glad** Bucky’s here. He always sleeps better with him around and they both know it._

_Bucky just shrugs, lips quirking up. “I’ve done worse,” he replies, and Steve snorts quietly, coughing a little. Bucky’s lips lower back down and Steve wishes they hadn’t._

_“S’nothing to brag about, doof,” Steve mumbles, trying to lighten the mood again._

_“ **Who’s** the doof?” Bucky asks, smile back in his voice when Steve’s eyes fall shut._

_“ **You** are,” he manages to get out, and thinks he can feel fingers brush his bangs lightly, but he’s asleep before he can tell._

 

“It _is_ you,” Steve whispers, staring at the rock for a few minutes more before putting it back and sliding his window down to rest on top of it like in his memories, going back to the table and turning his sketchbook to the next page.

He picks up his pencil.


	6. Come raise the dead, I’m dreaming of the end. Illuminate the way to my heart, existing on a thread

He walks. Sleeps in gutters and below bridges when the sun is _high_ and _burns_ , and wanders the night when the stars are out and the moon is alone in the middle of its shift. He stops at the Captain’s apartment at random, keeps his movements unpredictable to avoid detection and keeps his distance. The Captain isn’t always there, and the times he’s not, the Winter Soldier doesn’t linger.

Just walks, in search of a mission that isn’t coming when he can’t complete the one he has assigned to himself.

He walks.

Everything is bright and loud, night lit up like day. He drinks a beer alone in a bar with money taken off a dead man and the aftertaste of blood in his mouth, dumped in a river and weighted down. He watches people, the way they move and the way they try not to, but they’re never still, even when they think they are, not like he is. Not like the Captain is.

He goes to the library and learns things he needs and things he _wants_ and things that...are just _there_. There’s so much information just _there_ , all for the taking and nowhere to go, drifting like he is with no set destination but at the mercy of everyone’s fingertips if they know the right keys to push.

No one types in the right commands for him, and no one comes, not yet, so he keeps walking.

It’s a week before something changes, something he wasn’t expecting, or maybe he was, but a deep part of him is... _surprised_. 

He makes sure the Captain is gone and that the agents watching the apartment are all tired and losing focus before he moves in, slow instead of quick, in case they’re prepared for that, and climbs up to the metal, barred ledge outside the Captain’s far window around the corner curved into the alley and crouches low, scenting the air. 

The window’s still open a little, the rock where he left it.

He smells plastic and sees deep red, almost black in the night where he’s just out of reach of a stretching street light, and looks for any traps or triggers. 

When he finds none ( _and that deep part of him isn’t surprised at **that**. He gets the sense he shouldn’t have thought of the Captain that way. That he’s sneaky in ways that **aren’t** underhanded, not like this, not with him_), he reaches forward and takes the packet, tense and alert, and when nothing happens, he leaves.

He opens it five miles from the apartment, tilts it and his head back, and drinks, and thinks it doesn’t taste as good as the life he drinks from the living, but it’s less conspicuous. Far less noticeable. It will keep him hidden a little longer ( _and the deep part of himself knows the Captain **knows this**_ ).

\-----

Steve runs another lap, keeps his speed down to below a blur but higher than the average human and _runs_ , tries to clear his head of the loop of thoughts that’s been circling circling _circling_ like vultures waiting for him to drop so they can go in and scavenge what’s left of his still heart in his still chest, circling it like he’s lapping around the Mall.

Bucky came to see him. 

He’s pretty sure Bucky’s watching his apartment, at least some of the time, but that he hasn’t gotten close. Steve hasn’t been able to detect that slight smell that they both still have, a lingering scent of what they smelled like as humans when they were alive tinged with something sweet, alluring, _especially_ to people. It’s dissipated after a few days inside the apartment and Steve...misses it.

He tried something new this evening, and he hopes that when he gets back- Well.

He’s on his tenth lap when someone joins him on the same route, the sun still down below the horizon and the sky still dim, deep and dark blues and very early grays. He should have enough time to finish his laps and get back before the sun clears the flat line of DC.

Bucky runs next to him, back in blue and quiet, not the one Steve wants but a Bucky all the same. Sometimes he’s gone when Steve looks over, only to be standing next to a tree or a pillar or up by the water when Steve looks back up, watching him with quiet eyes and an unreadable sort of...sadness.

Steve feels guilty.

He and this Bucky have not talked in a few days.

“ _On your left_ ,” Steve calls out for the second time, eyes still on Bucky like the first time while he passes the only other person on the route, watches Bucky look down into the water with a slightly thoughtful expression before looking back up and over at the man when Steve does when the man replies, “ _On my left. Got it_.”

Steve manages to get a better reaction out of the guy on his last lap and Bucky cracks an old, familiar smile. 

Steve didn’t realize how much he missed it until then. 

The real Bucky doesn’t seem to smile anymore.

( _Steve doesn’t, either_ ).

\--

The man’s name is Sam Wilson, and he might be the first person Steve’s volunteered to talk to since returning to the world.

(Though he never really left it, did he).

\--

When he gets back to the apartment, he slowly makes his way over to the window and checks it. 

The rock is still there and the window still open a little, but the blood packet he left out on the sill is gone, and he doesn’t smell any residual scents of the agents watching his apartment, so it wasn’t them.

Steve can’t help smiling a little, one of the first real ones he’s had on his face in decades.

Bucky was here.

\-----

Steve leaves another blood packet and goes for a walk. 

The more he leaves the apartment, the greater chance there is of Bucky _going to_ it, so he walks, one foot in front of the other, like it’s easy. 

Sometimes it is. Sometimes it isn’t.

When he looks up from under his hat, from making sure his feet keep moving in a straight line, that they keep moving at all, he finds himself at the bottom of the steps to the Smithsonian, staring up at his own face.

The skin isn’t right. He hasn’t had the color of the living in his cheeks in years.

The museum’s closed.

He takes a step up the stairs, this time without looking at his feet.

\--

It’s easy to get in, maybe easier than it should be, maybe not, considering what he is, and makes his way to his own exhibit.

Most of the lights are off but the displays are still gently lit like they hold things of value, things worth something to anyone but him.

He watches a still picture of the old him dissolve into the new one on a life size screen, from frail and broken to fixed and new, from man to weapon, from human to monster.

He doesn’t feel anything.

He wanders over to his motorcycle, to his and the Commando’s uniforms displayed like the proud children of old, and then to Bucky’s tribute, erected in glass and text and five feet of space in a room otherwise made of _him_.

It doesn’t feel like enough.

\--

He closes the apartment door behind him and pulls his hat off, walking down the hall and to the left and hanging it on the rack, taking his coat off to go along with it.

The agents are still surveying his apartment. He can smell them no matter how much they try to hide it.

Steve turns towards the windo-

Something darts away and Steve rushes towards it, manages to press his cheek and nose to the glass just in time to see a dark figure zip into the shadows of an alley across the street. 

He stares for a long time, until his breath would make it impossible to see if he emitted heat and finally looks down.

He bends and lifts the window open, reaching out to grab the mostly finished blood packet before standing back up and closing the window until it rests back down on the rock, staring down at the packet. He brings it up to his mouth after another long while and wraps his lips around the end, letting his eyes fall closed. He takes a few minutes before tilting it back and draining the rest into his mouth.

He can just barely taste Bucky on it, dull and sweet and new, scarred onto him like a thousand years gone by in his head in the ice.

\--

He leaves another out the next night and makes himself scarce. When he gets back, that one’s gone, too.

It feels like he’s luring in a stray and he feels guilt for thinking of Bucky that way, makes himself look into the other Bucky’s eyes while he watches the whole thing, the blue of them still bright, no longer faded.

But he catches a few brief glimpses of the real Bucky, a little more each time. It’s _working_.

So he keeps trying.

\--

Steve manages to keep it up for a week before he’s called in for a mission, and the government comes calling.


	7. You're the first and last of your kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. I'm so sorry for the delay. No I haven't forgotten about this story or any of the others, life just sucked my muse dry for a while is all. fjdksl. In regards to that, though, I've decided to make a writing blog where I'll post updates of what I'm working on/my progress, etc for each story at any given time. It's here, if you want the link; http://shaishwrites.tumblr.com/ Thank you for being so patient. <333

“Alright,” Fury starts, sat at the head of the table, “This mission will be operated in joint with the U.S. Military.” Clint makes a face and Steve glances over at him. “I know,” Fury says, “I don’t like it either. But this time it’s a necessity.”

“Why?” Natasha asks, one eyebrow just slightly curved up.

“Let’s just say I asked for something,” Fury replies, looking to Natasha, “And they asked for something in return.” Natasha’s expression evens out and Fury pulls up the mission files.

Bucky frowns from Steve’s right, leaning back in his chair and putting his boots up on the table, crossing them at the ankles and lacing his fingers over his stomach.

Steve shares the briefest glance with him - all he can spare right now - before focusing back on the briefing.

\--

“So that’s the man who’s after Banner,” Steve finds himself saying, watching Fury talk with the head of the military part of the operation across the tarmac.

“What?” Clint asks, at the same time Bucky says, ‘ _I don’t like him_.’ Steve blinks once and looks to Clint.

“That’s the man who’s been after Doctor Banner,” he repeats, loud enough for someone other than himself ( _and Bucky_ ) to hear. He read the files on Banner and the Hulk. General Ross was mentioned _more_ than once, and in nearly every single one.

“Oh,” Clint replies, looking back to the small gathering, “Yeah. General Ross.” Steve hears Natasha board the quinjet behind them and start it up while the military group starts to disperse into their own jet and helicopter to do the same.

General Ross looks at him and smiles.

Steve nods a little back.

“Hey, Steve,” Clint says after a moment, just when Steve’s thinking about boarding, too. He looks over and Clint looks back. “If you’re capable of things S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t know about, keep them to yourself on this mission,” he says, and it sounds like a warning. Steve blinks and Clint looks back to Ross, watching them start to take off before turning for the jet. “Guy was after Banner for the serum,” he continues, and Steve watches the helicopter lift before following him, “Could be after you, too.”

Steve processes that while he takes his seat, watches Clint walk up to take the co-pilot seat next to Natasha.

Normally, Steve wouldn’t really care if someone was after him, but ‘normally’ was before he knew Bucky was alive. Now he can’t afford not to care.

He glances over and Bucky smirks back, lets it curve up into a grin.

Steve’s lips twitch back and he reaches up, rubbing at the thick layer of sunscreen on his cheek.

It’s going to be a long day.

\-----

The Winter Soldier curls up in the corner, away from the light, dust and rotted wood and mold in his nose. The light’s bright and tempting, has been for days, and he still has the urge to throw himself into it, even though he knows what it’ll do.

They trained him with it. The light. They had to.

He curls up tighter instead, left arm wrapped around his waist, and closes his eyes.

\-----

The flight doesn't take long. Two hours at high speed and they're there. Steve listens to the quinjet engines and Nat and Clint's heartbeats and breathing the whole way.

Their respiratory systems almost sound like they're dancing.

Once they touch down, Steve unhooks his harness and stands, leading the way out. The other quinjet’s back hatch opens and the soldiers step out a moment later.

Steve feels their eyes on him across the space, and when he looks up as they all group, he finds their stares.

"Everyone clear on their objective?" their leader asks, voice gruff. A few jerk to attention and drag their eyes from Steve before they all nod. "Good. Let's move out."

Clint breaks off, two soldiers following him; Natasha, the same, and Steve starts walking down the center in the direction of the encampment they discussed on the map before they left, three soldiers behind him while four more spread out and disappear into the trees.

Well, to everyone else, anyway.

Steve tracks their heartbeats while feeling the sunscreen warm on his cheeks and eyes like lasers focused on his back, and tries not to think of bursting into flame.

He’s been cold so long, he’s not sure he’d even notice if he did.

\-----

The Winter Soldier silently scales the side of the building up to the Captain’s apartment, hauls himself just as silent over the fire escape and lands without a sound, stilling when his eyes catch on-

He glances around quick, then slow, before reaching forward and very carefully taking hold of and pulling out the piece of paper trapped between blood packets.

_On a mission. Should be back in two nights. Please be careful._

_Steve_

He lets his eyes trace over and linger on the elegant, swooped letters before looking up into the dark of Steve’s apartment through the barely cracked blinds, then back down at the blood packets.

He carefully tucks the note into a pocket and tucks the blood packets into the others before slipping back over the fire escape.

\--

He wanders the city, finds a discarded newspaper to wrap around a blood packet and sips from it while he watches the city breathe, watches cars come and go with lights as bright as sunlight at night, hears laughter, feels the brief but lingering warmth of strangers passing him on the sidewalk.

There’s so many out, in this city. It’s busy as it used to be during the da-

He shakes his head a little.

The point is, no one really seems to sleep anymore.

He doesn’t want to, either, if you could call an ice prison _sleep_.

He wanders the city for a while longer, in and out of alleys-

_“Aww, Steve. **Again**?”_

_“I had’em on the ropes-”_

\- and drains the last of a second packet, tossing it into barrel fire wrapped up in newspaper and ignoring the few glances he gets from the few holding their hands up to it around it. He shoves his hand in his pocket and keeps his head down, eyes continually scanning the streets-

He spots something and scents the air, turning to cross the street and subtly glancing back, eyes tracking a man halfway up the one he’s currently crossing from; watching him. He focuses in on the man’s heartbeat before turning left and continuing on down the street, taking a right at the end of it.

-

The target turns the corner and he almost pauses, but keeps walking, eyes scanning for-

 _There_.

He watches the target walk along the other side of the street and then turn left down an alley, and takes a slow breath, looking left then right and quickly crossing the street, subtly pulling his gun out just as he crosses the width of the sidewalk and enters the alley-

His steps slow and he keeps walking, eyes scanning left, right, up the sides to the metal stairs and fire escapes. He keeps his hands controlled on his gun and his breathing just as controlled as his grip, steps quiet-

 _Clatter- **rattle**_.

His eyes dart left and he points his gun, moving slowly towards the dumpster. A can rolls out from behind it and he takes another slow breath, forcing his heart rate calm. He keeps his steps quiet while he moves, eyes still scanning the alleyway as he closes in, closer, closer-

He jerks his gun up at the end of the dumpster and then pauses, frowning slightly.

The dog stares back up, ribcage practically all bones and the rest of it not much better, a piece of lettuce hanging limp off of the end of its muzzle, eyes nocturnal bright in the shadows.

He turns away-

Pauses.

He turns back towards the dumpster, eyeing it warily. He shifts his gun to one hand and slowly reaches out for the lid, fingers gripping the cool, gritty metal. He counts to three in his head and then yanks it up, pointing his gun inside-

He blows out a quiet breath, slowly lowering the lid when he just finds a few garbage bags at the dark bottom. He turns arou-

His eyes widen and he whips his gun up, metal crunching under metal and a hand gripping his throat, shoving him back like he’s _nothing_ -

His back hits brick _hard_ and he coughs out the air he was trying to save, right hand scrabbling at the cool grip slowly constricting his airway.

He’s vaguely aware of the sound of the dog taking off down the alley.

The gun gets crushed further and slowly set on top of the dumpster, but he can’t look away from the eyes staring at him, nocturnal bright in the shadows, vision starting to blur-

“ _What do you know_ ,” the target demands, grip loosening enough for him to gasp in air.

“Know about wha-” his air gets cut off again and his eyes bulge a little, hands scrabbling at the arm attached to the hand at his throat. It doesn’t _budge_. He taps it a few times as a last resort, vision spotting again and it lets up. He coughs in a few breaths, heart thudding like a rabbit’s in his ears. “I don’t know what you’re-” the hand tightens, “ _I don’t- I d_ -” His arms slowly start to go slack while his vision blackens an-

And then he can _breathe_ again and he _coughs_ , sucking in breaths while he can. The eyes are still on him, pupils bright in the night like oil on water and-...

He stares, can’t look away.

“ _Tell me_ ,” the target demands, voice hard, but something slow and curling around the edges, making things tense and simultaneously _soft_.

“I was assigned to follow you,” he finds himself answering, words pulled out of him with little to no effort at all, even though some increasingly distant part of his brain is telling him to try and get free and make a break for it down the alley like the stray dog did, “Alert the team and bring you in if necessary.”

 _Quiet_. Cars passing beyond the alley, but it seems so far away, now. Missions are like that. Take the normal and make it abnormal. The abnormal becomes the normal.

“How many?” the target asks.

“Seven,” he answers.

“ _And Rogers?_ ” the target asks next, pressing a little on his throat. He finds it doesn’t really matter, anymore, but that face- Looking at that face _does matter_ , and answering, giving the targe- _him_ whatever he _wants_ -

“The military has an interest in his abilities,” he answers, “That’s all I know.” He wishes he knew _more,_ wants to give the Winter Soldier whatever he _needs_ , want to be _everything_ _**he**_ _nee-_

 _Snap_.

The Winter Soldier lifts the body over his shoulder and turns, continuing on down the alley the same way the dog went.

\-----

“All hostages alive and accounted for,” Steve reports.

“ _Any complications?_ ” Fury asks from the screen, and Steve shakes his head. He can feel Bucky’s eyes on him, sees him shift out of the corner of his eye but keeps his own eyes forward.

“No,” he reports, “Our joint operation with the military was effective.”

Fury nods, lacing his fingers together on his desk. “ _Report for full debrief after landing_.”

“Yes, Sir,” Steve answers, and the line disconnects. ‘ _What?’_ he thinks.

‘ _Oh, nothing_ ,’ Bucky replies, stepping more into his field of vision, ‘ _Just that those creeps were starin’ at you whenever they weren’t busy. And sometimes when they **were**_ ,’ he adds in a mutter.

Steve turns and heads over for a seat, taking it and buckling in. Bucky uncrosses and recrosses his arms, shifting once.

‘ _Think they’re finally coming for us_ ,’ Bucky says, not asks, and Steve looks down at the floor. Bucky sighs. ‘ _We knew this would happen_ ,’ he says, and Steve thinks of Bucky, the other Bucky.

Maybe Steve should have pushed him away. If someone is after him, then they’ll be after Buck- Unless...Someone’s probably already after Bucky. How is he even _alive?_

Steve thinks of the metal pod, the container, thinks of the label under his pillow at his apartment and the metal arm Bucky had, and barely keeps his fingers from curling into fists.

“ _How you holdin’ up?_ ” Clint calls back, and Steve sits back in his seat a little more.

“I’m fine,” he returns.

“ _Daylight’s sinking_ ,” Clint returns, flipping a few switches up front. Steve hears them _clickclickclick,_ “ _Night’ll be here in half an hour_.”

‘ _We know_ ,’ Bucky replies, a little testy. Steve keeps his eyes on the floor. Clint doesn’t reply.

 _‘You had a- He had a red star,’_ Steve thinks, and Bucky’s eyes focus back on him. Steve looks up. ‘ _We were in Russia when we found him. The Russians, maybe?’_ he asks, and Bucky _hums_ quietly in thought.

‘ _During the war?_ ’ he asks, and Steve looks across at the wall.

 _‘Had to be,’_ he thinks, swallows, ‘ _But how long have they had him?’_

‘... _The whole time?_ ’ Bucky asks quietly, and Steve closes his eyes, tilting his head back.

“ _You okay back there, Rogers?_ ” Natasha calls back, and Steve feels eyes on him. More eyes. If he’s caught and studied, that’s all he’s going to feel, isn’t it, besides pain.

“I’m fine,” he calls back, opening his eyes and staring up.

But all he sees is Bucky.

\-----

They finish the debrief and all stand.

“Rogers,” Fury says, and Steve stops and turns, listens to Natasha and Clint’s footsteps fade out of the room, the door falling shut like an impact behind them.

“Sir?” he asks, and watches Fury head over to his desk.

Fury bends down and Steve hears metal click and unlock, the sound of a drawer sliding open, then the smell of scotch and cleaner chemicals and metal, hears something rattle faintly, barely there and muffled. Fury lifts a small, metal box and slides the drawer closed, locks it, then rounds his desk again, coming back over.

“This is part of what I asked the government for,” he says, looking at the metal box for a moment and then offering it to him. Steve glances from it to him, then back again.

He reaches up and takes it.

The metal is old, maybe as old as he is, rough textured and smooth. Steve can feel grooves and scratches in it, damage from the years and _age_.

If he had a beating heart, it would be thudding right now.

He’s not sure he wants to open it.

He reaches a hand for the lid-

“Not here,” Fury cuts him off, and Steve stops, looking back up.

Fury looks back and Steve nods a little, lowering his hand to the lid and keeping it there. He turns and heads for the door, pulling it open and heading down the hall.

\--

The metal box is a heavy thought, stowed away in a storage bag on his bike. He steers through the streets and tries not to think of it, lets it fade to the background with the sounds of people yelling and laughing and car tires rolling over pavement.

He parks his bike once he’s in front his apartment, cuts the engine, kicks the stand out, and dismounts, reaching into the storage pouch and pulling out the box.

The stairwell is empty once he gets inside. It usually is this time of night in this kind of neighborhood, but he’s still not used to it. He takes the stairs three at a time, silent as a feather briefly touching down on wood, and gets his key in his lock and his door open, slipping inside and locking it behind him.

He stops and stands still, listens to the sounds, or lack thereof, in his apartment ( _beyond it_ ), and when he finds nothing, heads to the window first, pulling it open and checking outside.

The blood packets and his note are gone, and if he tries, he can _almost_ smell faint traces of Bucky.

He closes the window enough to settle down on the rock again and heads for his bedroom to change.

He sits down, after, staring down at the metal box. Bucky leans back against the wall, arms crossed.

‘ _You gonna open it? Or_ …’ Bucky trails off, and Steve blows out a small breath, gripping the lid and pulling up-

He stops, breaths ceasing in his chest.

He sets the lid down, reaching in to run his fingers across the engraved metal, picking up the dog tags and dropping the box, ignores the sound of it hitting the hardwood floor.

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve breathes, staring at Bucky’s dogtags for another few minutes before reaching up to put them on, letting them overlap with his own, metal _clinking_ softly. He touches them again, can’t stop, eyelids closing a bit and swaying slightl-

Steve blinks, darting into the kitche-

He stumbles into the wall shelf, glasses shattering on the floor, and keeps going, looking for something, _anything_ , the first thing he can think of to douse himself with-

He grabs the plastic bottle of hand soap off the sink and rips the top half off, dumping it out over the top of his head and squeezing his eyes shut. He throws the bottle towards the propped open window then rubs the soap into his hair, his undershirt and sweatpants, some of his boxers before swaying again and stumbling forward into the entryway, dropping to his knees and then hitting the floor. His vision fades in and out, black, floor, black, floor...

He tilts his head up to at least see the propped open window once before his head drops and his vision goes black again.

\--

_Footsteps._

They fade out.

_Something nudges his body, but everything’s numb._

_“Think it’s dead?”_

_“It was already dead.”_

He fades out.

_His body moves, lifts._

_“Why is there soap?”_

He fades out.

_“Get it to the truck.”_

_His body moves, tops of his feet dragging against smooth_ -

He fades out.

 _His body drops onto something hard_.

He fades out.

\-----

Winter Soldier darts across the rooftops, pushes himself _faster_ and then forces himself to slow a mile away.

They’ll have noticed their missing agent by now, which means their guard will be higher.

He drops off the roof and into an alley, working his way out onto a side street.

He makes himself go slow, be patient, he has it in abundance- _Had_. He had it in abundance, but Ste- The Captain. He can’t let them take the Captain. He can’t let them do it to Ste-

He can’t let them. He can’t let them make another Winter Soldier.

He makes himself double back three times just to be sure, then finally lets himself walk into the alley behind Stev- the Captain’s apartment, eyes darting around. The cat’s there again, _mreowing_ long and loud. He can smell its heat, discards the information and quickly and silently scales the building wall. He hops over the fire escape and pauses, staring into the apartment and listening.

 _Silence_.

His lips twitch down slightly.

Tonight is the second night. Ste- the Captain _should_ be back.

He glances around.

No blood packets.

He looks back to the window, slowly inching forward.

He slowly curls his fingers under the propped open window and lifts, slow and quiet, glances around and just inside, eyes catching on half a bottle before slowly and silently slipping into the apartment. He walks over to the bottle, picking it up and scenting it.

Ste-

He follows the drop trail to the kitchen, stopping at the entryway and crouching down. He slides his fingers against the floor and feels soap, rubs them together then lifts his fingers and sniffs them.

Ste-

He stands, looking around at the glass.

He drops the bottle and heads for the front door, pausing briefly to listen before slowly unlocking it and turning the handle, pulling it open.

 _Silence_. A woman talking on the phone in the apartment next to this one.

He steps out, silently closing the door behind him before darting down the stairs, following the scent. He stops at the building’s front door and peeks out the window.

Agents. Three of them. One in a car and two pretending to be civilians.

He backtracks and heads back upstairs, aiming for Steve’s apartment once he steps on the landing-

The neighboring door opens halfway to it and he stills, glancing over.

“Oh,” a woman says, blonde hair almost gold with the light on behind her-

 

_He stares at Steve, wonders if he’s made of golddust-_

 

-blinking, “You’re-”

He darts over, clamping a hand over her mouth before she can _jolt,_ her eyes wide _,_ and forcing her inside her apartment, closing the door behind him.

\-----

Steve comes to slow, starts to stir but keeps his body still, doesn’t let it show. It’s not hard to do after spending so much time in ice. His head feels heavy, thick. What-

Right. He fell. Drugged? No. His tolerance is too high. How-

His arms are being held out. He’s starting to feel like he’s on a crucifix.

He feels eyes on him.

“Sir,” a voice says, “He’s coming to.”

Steve cracks his eyes open. No point in trying to play dumb anymore.

“Hello, there, Captain Rogers.”

Steve looks up, light bright and shining down, and finds their stares.


	8. I've got my scars right here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: Torture, of a sort; death.

“General Ross,” Steve returns. The General smiles. Steve doesn’t nod this time.

“My men and I have some questions for you that we’d like you to answer,” The General starts, arms crossed behind his back, “If you’d be so courteous.”

Steve stays quiet.

“Just the same,” the General says, nodding towards a man near the wall on the right. The man turns to grab something off a table and then starts walking over, holding-

Garlic?

Oh. Those kinds of questions.

“There’s some things the government would like to know,” The General says.

“You didn’t read my file?” Steve asks. The man holds the garlic up near his face and then presses it to his shoulder, walking away after a minute of no reaction. Steve hears pens on paper and fingers on computer keys.

“As thorough as the S.S.R. was in the 1940s, things have changed,” Ross says, “You understand. Besides, I can’t count on S.H.I.E.L.D. to remain unbiased towards their greatest...asset, and the government wants its own files. Purely academic.”

‘ _Of course_ ,’ Bucky replies, rolling his eyes, ‘ _Who doesn’t love a good **read**_.’

The man comes back with what smells like water and Steve takes an unnecessary, slow breath.

\-----

“ _Where is he_ ,” Winter Soldier demands. She shakes her head, as much as she can with his hand on her mouth, eyebrows drawing together. Her eyes dart down to his hand briefly and he pulls it back just enough for her to speak.

“I don’t know what you’re-”

He clamps his hand back down and feels her jaw shift slightly under it, watches her pupils contract.

The odds of Captain America’s neighbour not being planted are too low to disregard. She knows _something_.

“ _Where,_ ” he hisses. Her eyes dart down briefly to his teeth and widen further. He pulls his hand back again.

“I’m Agent 13 of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” she says, almost monotone, eyes on his, “Assigned as Captain Rogers security detail. He’s supposed to be in his apartment as of o’one-hundred.”

“He’s not,” is all he says, turning his head and looking towards the apartment before shifting his eyes back to her.

_Why do they keep telling him what he needs to know so easily? He knows they’re not lying, but…_

“What do you know?” he asks.

“Captain Rogers was injected with a serum that essentially turned him into a vampire. He knows my aunt Peggy-”

 

_“Barnes.”_

_“Carter.”_

 

“Carter,” he interrupts, and she goes further still, “Who’s in charge?”

“Director Nick Fury,” she answers, blinking slowly, languidly.

“Is this room monitored,” he says more than asks, because he just needs confirmation.

“Yes.”

He looks around and focuses on the nearest lamp. Close enough.

“I’m going after him,” he tells it, _Nick Fury_ , “Stay out of my way.” He can’t trust this…’Fury’ not to be involved. He can’t trust anyone.

He lets go of her and is gone before she can even finish blinking, aiming straight for the agents outside.

\-----

Steve grits his teeth, squinting against the light. The metal finally shifts from _stinging_ to _burning_ and he makes a choked off sound in the back of his throat, squeezing his eyes shut as it progressively gets _worse_.

“Time?” Ross asks, sounding vaguely interested.

“Forty-five minutes,” a voice replies, then the _scritching_ of a pen and _clacking_ keys on a keyboard.

“Repeat with each item for one hour,” Ross instructs, voice moving away.

“And the silver, Sir?” another voice asks.

“I said an hour.”

“Sir.”

Steve makes a pained sound, fists curling in tighter and nails digging straight through his palms, room temperature, sticky- _wet_ slipping over his skin and between his fingers. His nose picks up the smell of his own blood and it's loud in his ears when it hits the floor.

\-----

Winter Soldier drops the third body and starts walking, trying to follow the scent the soldiers left behind. There was a cluster of it in the apartment, now that he knows what to look for. TAC gear and clean metal, faint hint of sweat, barely there, not enough to follow. He'll have to track the gear and guns. The scent of the hand soap Rogers must have used is fading, too.

He heads for the first place the smells lead him: an alley, probably where they kept transport. His eyes track the cement and he keeps walking, slowly picking up pace until he's running, the world quickly turning into a blur. After a few minutes, he skids to a stop just outside an apartment complex, glancing back in the direction he came.

There's a clear shot of Steve’s apartment from here, if you've got a long range sight.

He looks back and up at the building, judging the distance for the apartment they'd need to use before heading inside.

\-----

“Have you got into the surveillance system yet?”

“Yyyyes, sir. It's up and running now.”

“Patch us in. Take their communications, too. Quietly.”

“Yes, sir.”

\-----

He presses an ear to the door, listening.

Nothing. Not even heartbeats.

He pulls back and tries the knob, keeps twisting it when it tries to stop and breaks the lock, slipping his fingers out of the depressions he leaves in the doorknob and stepping inside while doing a sweep with his eyes.

Empty, except for basic, expendable equipment: a coffee machine, a microwave, a fridge, three chairs. A camera in the far upper corner. Too late to worry about it now. He stays where he is though, taking in the details of the room for a minute, looking for disturbed dust and scenting the air. He's taken a few steps towards the hall when-

“ _Looking for Rogers?_ ”

He stops, looking towards the camera. The voice is male, deep, older than him, physically, very slightly accented in a _curved_ way.

“ _You met one of my agents_ ,” the voice continues. Nick Fury, possibly. “ _We need to meet._ ” Winter Soldier ignores the voice and keeps looking. “ _You won’t find anything here_.” Most likely, but he has to check anyway. “ _Even **you're** going to need help_.” He keeps his fingers from curling, checking all of the rooms.

Nothing.

He heads for the door, following the scents. They'll lead back to the Captain’s apartment. He needs-

He stops.

“Talk,” he orders.

“ _Not here_ ,” the voice replies.

“Then nowhere,” he returns, and takes a step-

“ _ **Fine**_.”

He stops again.

\-----

Steve pants, breathing deep and staring half-lidded up at the light. It doesn't hurt anymore. Or maybe it does. He's not sure anymore.

He vaguely sees someone place down something tall and reflective in his periphery - a mirror - and wants to _laugh_. All he manages is his lips tugging up just slightly.

He really hopes someone finds him before they get to the sunlight. Or does he? He doesn't know anymore.

He flexes his fingers, curling and uncurling to test the blood flow. His wounds are healing a bit slower. They're draining his energy. He might not make it through the sunlight, even if it's shut off in time. Would he really mind, though? But Bucky…

Steve closes his eyes and lets his mind drift. It's not so hard. More like second nature. Still.

\-----

He darts along the perimeter, weaves around trees.

Nick Fury's intel was correct. They have motion and heat sensors, guards posted continuously at every point that might be vulnerable, no blind spots. If the intel keeps being correct, they'll be holding Steve four stories underground ( _Fury knows too much_ ). If he pushes his top speed-

He slows before darting back into the forest, then running at the fence and jumping-

A gun goes off but it's slow to his eyes. His feet touch down and he _sprints_ , doesn’t look back and keeps his eyes ahead, the compound alarm blaring loud. He hears birds scatter from their trees and heartbeats quicken all around.

\--

Getting inside is easy. He dodges gunfire and laser eyesights, weaves through red and slashes skin as soon as he finds it, leaving a trail of the dying behind. He snatches a security I.D. as he pulls his nails out of a gushing neck and keeps heading down.

_Sub-Level 1_

_Sub-Level 2_

_Sub-Level 3_

_Sub-Level 4_

He shoves the door open, barely hears it collide with the wall and darts down the hall, slicing the throats of the guards and leaving a zig-zag of red. He key card’s the last door and-

It doesn't work.

“ _Shit_ ,” he curses, darting back to grab one off the agent immediately behind him, sees the life still struggling in his eyes and ignores it, turning back and trying the door again. He could open it without the card, but the less evidence, the better.

He slides the card.

The light flicks from red to green. It opens.

He shoves inside, skidding to a stop, eyes a little wide and staring straight ahead.

Steve’s strapped to a cross like Christ and his skin is burning, his eyes closed. He's not making a sound. He almost looks... _serene_.

He runs over and rips the metal apart, evidence be damned. Steve’s eyes slowly open amongst the burnt and dried red of his face, eyes a faded blue, almost white. Steve scents the air and then his lips slowly curve up.

“Bucky.”

He can't see.

He gets Steve down and scoops him up, darting out of the room. New agents are filtering in on the ground floor and they fire.

He takes the bullets. He takes all the bullets aimed at them and tears their throats out with his teeth.

After that, a fence is nothing to a rabid dog.

\--

Steve presses as close to him as he can, even with his burns. He feels fingers curl tight into his shirt and nails pierce the fabric, can smell the wounds healing but it's slow, too slow.

But he can't stop running yet.

\--

He clears the forest and heads into the underpopulated part of the city, stashes Steve in an abandoned building and scents around the perimeter. He picks up the scent of a stray mutt and aims for it, world blurring.

He breaks its neck and takes it back, kneeling to gently set it down before helping Steve bend down, using a hand to guide him by the back of his neck when Steve pauses.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers to it.

“We both are,” he says quietly. Steve closes his eyes briefly and then parts his lips wide, teeth disappearing into fur first before blood spills over.

\--

Steve sits up, after, red sliding down newly smooth skin that glows soft in the moonlight coming through a gouge in the high ceiling.

“I’m glad you're here,” is the first thing Steve says, blood dripping from his chin and covering half of his face, eyes made almost white by the moon this time instead of the sun. He can’t say he's seen anything like it, like this. Like Steve.

He pushes himself to stand, Steve's eyes following his movement. Something unclenches in his chest at that. He's healed.

“We need to leave.”

Steve looks down, strokes a broad, gentle hand over thin skinned fur over bones and then digs his fingernails into the bite, tearing at it, distorting it. He gets up and follows when the Winter Soldier starts walking, bare feet padding near silent after his own booted ones.

\--

He gets Steve an ill-fitting pair of old boots and a large hoodie that hangs awkward on his frame before they start slowly winding their way around the city, dipping in and out of populated and deserted areas. They're passing a window of lit TVs when Steve stops, turning his head to look.

Steve takes the lead, after, pausing to look back.

The Soldier watches him for a moment, then follows.

\--

He takes the seat next to Steve on the subway, staring straight ahead at his reflection under the flickering light. His reflection vanishes and reappears with it, and he wonders if that is him, too, vanishing and reappearing. And he wonders if Steve is the shadow, or the light.

He pushes the image of Steve on the cross in that room; _serene_ , aside for later, turning his face just slightly towards him.

“Where are we going?” he asks, low and quiet and only for Steve’s ears. Steve hums quietly, an old tune-

His memory flickers.

_Something old something new, something borrowed something blue_

He frowns slightly, lips tugging down.

That doesn't correlate to anything. What is Steve-

The train slows to a stop and Steve gets up, not looking to see if he'll follow, but the Soldier sees his lips curved up.

He frowns further, but gets up and follows, for now.

He's not sure why he's still doing it, just that something’s pulling him. Steve, maybe. It makes him...uncomfortable. He should have left as soon as Steve was healed, and yet…

They exit out of the subway and up the stairs back into the nightlife of the city, and what he doesn't see is Steve’s fingers curled tightly in his pockets, as tight as possible without piercing his skin.

\--

After a while, he stops and Steve stutters to a stop in front of him, turning to look back ( _finally_ )-

Winter Soldier shakes his head internally, blinking once, harder, to focus.

“I'm not going in there,” he states. They've been weaving in and out but gradually getting closer and closer to the center of the city and it's been making him more and more tense, suspicion about where they're heading getting stronger and stronger. He knows where they’re going now.

“It’s safe,” Steve replies.

“Nowhere is safe,” he says pointedly. Steve stares back, eyes darting to his left briefly. Winter Soldier focuses his senses, but doesn't pick up anything.

“This will be,” Steve says after a moment, “At least long enough to rest.”

Winter Soldier turns around and starts walking

“Bucky-”

He ignores the name. “You got a message,” he cuts him off, thinking back to the TVs, Steve’s footsteps near silent as they jog to catch up, “You've been leading me there this whole time.”

“ _Bucky_ -”

“Stop calling me that.”

Steve’s steps stutter then pick up. The Captain stops in front of him, close enough to block his path. He stares up slightly.

“How did you find me,” Steve says, not asks. No point not answering.

“Fury.” That makes Steve pause.

“‘Nowhere is safe’,” Steve repeats, staring at him. “This will be different.”

“How,” he demands.

“Tony was-”

“Listening in,” Bucky says at the same time, putting it together. His fingers curl a bit. “That’s no guarantee.”

Steve’s lips curve up slightly, eyebrows drawing together a bit. “Nothing is.”

 _He's right_.

The Soldier stares at him for a long minute before letting out a breath and slowly turning around. Steve almost _skips_ ahead of him and leads the rest of the way. It doesn't make the tension ease any, especially when they meet something called _Jarvis_.

Stark is even worse.


	9. Secrets I have held in my heart, are harder to hide than I thought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really love I Wanna Be Yours by the Arctic Monkeys. It just fits Steve and Bucky no matter the variation of them.  
> In other news, I reached the end of my current set of plotty notes for this story about three pages into this chapter, so I guess we'll all have to see where these two go.

He can tell Bucky- the Winter Soldier? Is tense before they can even see the building, can tell that it only gets worse the closer they get and Steve’s almost waiting for him to bolt, body loose and ready to follow. He just got Bucky _back_ , kind of, he's not ready to let him out of his immediate space.

Steve glances over at Other Bucky as they walk and they share a look, his senses mostly focused on the Bucky behind him as they eventually cross the street and round the back of the Tower, heading to the Tower parking garage.

Steve’s coded into the system so they get in easy, but the elevator ride up is tense. He's in the twenty-first century caught between two Buckys, a shadow and a relic. He's not sure which is which.

As soon as the doors open, Steve hears, “ _Sparkles!_ ” and can smell motor oil and sweat and metal almost as quickly. Bucky shifts forward slightly, tense, and Steve raises a hand, forcing Bucky’s attention to shift to him instead before he tries to attack.

“Stark,” Steve replies, keeping his eyes on Bucky’s for a moment before shifting them to Tony.

Tony smirks, hands on his hips. “I see you brought a friend,” he comments.

Steve tenses then relaxes minutely.

Right. Not _that_ Bucky.

“Something like that,” he replies.

“Well,” Tony says, gesturing with an arm, “Mi casa es su casa, _especially_ if I get to have one over on Fury.”

“Thank yo-”

He hears barely-there steps and whips around, grabbing hold of Bucky’s arm ( _Steve can actually **touch** him_ ) before he realizes what he's doing. Bucky tenses further and turns his head to look at him, brow lowered.

“Bucky-” Steve starts.

“ _You_ can stay,” Bucky cuts him off, pulling his arm out of Steve’s grip, “I'm leaving.”

“To go where?” Steve asks. His heart would be beating a _panicking_ beat if it could.

“ _Away_ ,” Bucky answers unhelpfully. Steve stares and Bucky gives a faint, _frustrated_ growl. “ _I told you. Nowhere_ is safe.”

“Um. Have you _seen_ my security protocols?” Tony cuts in.

“ _ **Nowhere**_ ,” Bucky reiterates, only sparing him the briefest glance.

Steve frowns. “The General won't reach either of us here,” he replies.

Bucky’s lips thin. He turns to go again.

“Only trust yourself,” he warns, “And sometimes not even that,” he adds, quieter.

Steve _runs_ after him and barely catches the elevator doors before they can fully close. “ _Bucky_ ,” he pleads. Bucky gives him a dirty look and Steve feels like laughing. Probably shouldn't. “ _Please_.”

“ _No_ ,” Bucky nearly cuts him off, glaring up from under the edge of his hat, “I shouldn’t have followed you this far.”

Steve’s heart almost convulses. Or would. “But-” he starts.

“I need to-” Bucky says.

“I'll come with you,” Steve cuts him off, and Bucky stares, mouth still open a little.

“What?” he asks,

“Yeah, Cap. What?” Tony asks from behind him.

Steve ignores him.

“I'll come with you,” he repeats, gripping the edge of the elevator door.

“Hydra-” Bucky starts.

“I don’t care,” Steve cuts him off. Bucky pauses, brow furrowing slightly. “Bucky,” Steve says, searching his face, “ _I don’t care_.”

“You should,” Bucky replies, low.

“ _I don’t_ ,” Steve breathes, “I don’t care. Just please, I want- I want to stay with you.” Bucky’s lips flatten again. Stark says something but Steve doesn’t know what or care, just stares at Bucky while Bucky stares back.

Bucky opens his mouth, closes it, then finally steps aside, making room. Steve practically _lunges_ into the elevator.

“ _Don’t you at least want some fake I.D.s and passports?_ ” Stark calls as the doors start closing.

This time, Bucky catches it.

Steve doesn’t care. He almost wishes he could feel how his heart would be thudding if it were still beating.

\--

This is insane...isn't it?

“Tilt your face up,” Stark directs, “Aaaand smile!”

_Flash._

“Well,” he says, looking at the picture, “Better to hide those teeth, anyway. Jarvis? Make duplicates and spice them up; change hair and eye colors around, add glasses, facial hair...” He waves an arm.

“ _Right away, Sir_ ,” Jarvis replies. Bucky’s eyes dart around briefly at the response, can't help it.

Stark moves over to Steve and Bucky tries not to listen in ( _not hard enough_ ).

“ _You’re...okay, right?_ ” Stark asks quietly.

He sees Steve lift his head in his periphery.

Silence.

“ _Just...I was listening in, you know, when Robovamp was talking to Fury. Who, by the way_ -”

“ _Knew too much_ ,” Steve cuts in, calm and equally quiet. Steve _must_ know it's not nearly quiet enough for him to not be able to hear, unlike Stark. Maybe. Stark might know and it could all just be for some semblance of privacy.

It’s quiet for a few moments.

“ _I'm better now_ ,” Steve finally answers what feels like an eternity later.

“ _But **are** you? Really? From what Fury said, Ross was after some pretty...specific information. And I've been told **over** and over it's alright to feel_ …”

A huff. Quiet.

“ _I appreciate the attempt at concern_ ,” Steve teases, “ _But I'm okay. Really_.”

A sigh.

“ _And **him**?_ ” Stark asks.

“ _The ‘him’ who can hear you?_ ” Steve returns, smile in his voice.

How does Bucky know what that sounds like, the sound of Steve smiling? And when did he start thinking of himself as Bucky? When did he start thinking of Steve as _Steve?_ Maybe he should’ve left him behind. Maybe he shouldn't have tracked him down in the _first_ _place_. But then, Steve would've been trapped-...

Bucky glances over when Stark sputters, eyes on him, and pushes aside the memory of Steve on that damn cross, again, _serene_. What did that _mean?_

Maybe it _is_ a good idea for him to keep an eye on Steve. The...Steve’s associates might be able to do it, but Stark’s already missed something he hasn't.

_Stark...why does that sound familiar?_

“Uhh...well,” Stark claps his hands. Steve’s lips curve up a little more. “How are those I.D.s and passports coming along?”

“ _Nearly complete in printing, Sir_.”

“ _Great_. Excellent. That's...great.” Stark clears his throat. “You guys need anything while we wait? Blood? Sunscreen?”

“If you can,” Steve replies false-chipperly.

Stark gives him a look and then rolls his eyes, heading for the elevator.

“I'll see what I can do,” he says, holding up a hand when the elevator doors start closing. They pause. “I meant it Steve,” Stark adds more seriously.

Steve smiles. “I know,” he replies, “Thank you, Tony. For all of this.”

“Yeah, well,” is all Stark says after a stilted moment, gesturing again with his hand. The doors close and leave them to silence.

Bucky watches Steve, and Steve's eyes shift, looking back.

 _You're not okay_ , Bucky wants to say, but walls have ears, especially here.

“You shouldn't come,” he says instead, even if it's pointless. It feels like he should say it. Like he...would have? Once.

“Maybe that's why I should,” Steve tries to counter. Bucky gives him a flat look and Steve’s lips curl up. “I'm coming,” he adds, expression sobering, “I can't trust anyone here anymore.”

“Stark-” Bucky starts.

“Is not like us,” Steve cuts in quietly. Steve’s eyes drop and then shift to look out the windows.

They're too large. This building's a giant target. Maybe it would be better if Steve came with him.

Still. At least it's a well _guarded_ target. Maybe Bucky should leave him here.

Steve looks back.

“Fury knew where I was,” he says, not asks. Bucky nods anyway. Steve’s lips pinch and his fingers curl, stopping before his nails pierce the skin.

“He told me the layout, where to find it, what floor you'd be on, how many men,” Bucky lists off quietly. In other words, too much. It helped, but it gave Fury's cards away. He had to show some of his hand to get Steve out, maybe even get Steve _back._ Fury probably thinks Steve’s a puppet.

 _Like me,_ a part of his brain whispers.

“It’s not any safer with me,” Bucky continues, firmer. Steve’s eyes shift back up. “I have triggers, codes. I'm a danger to everything, and myself, and I don't...remember you. Not everything,” he finishes quieter. Steve’s expression...softens, not completely what he was expecting, nor the way it makes his...chest shift, _warm_ for all that he knows it’s cold and dead.

Steve steps closer and he wants to move away, put the closing distance back between them.

“You don't have to,” Steve says softly, smiling, “I can remember enough for the both of us.”

 _I can't trust that_ , he doesn't say, watching Steve watch him.

He can’t trust anyone, not even necessarily himself. Maybe especially not himself. He's putting Steve in danger, taking him with him. But the choice is _impossible_. Steve’s in varying degrees of danger even when he's supposed to be _**safe**_ -

He blinks once, slowly, feels something like familiarity slide down the back of his throat and shudder gently down his spine like new life, but not quite.

Steve keeps watching him, eyes shifting once briefly to his right.

The elevator doors open.

“Blood’s on its way,” Stark says, tossing something. Steve catches it without looking away from him again.

_Dangerous. Trust?_

“Passports are done,” Stark adds.

Bucky feels eyes on him.

He forces his away from the gravity of Steve’s. It's hard to do.

\--

“That phone's untraceable,” Stark explains, looking down at it while Steve does, too, “But if you ever need anything, this place is speed dial one. And if you _do_ need to be tracked, just hit the star button quickly twice, it'll turn on an emergency signal that I'll be able to track from anywhere.”

“It won't draw attention from others?” Bucky asks quietly, looking over at him. Stark shakes his head, smirking.

“Not my tech,” he replies.

Bucky watches him steadily and smells Stark start to sweat. He'll believe _that_ when he sees it.

He stands, putting the examined passports in the equally examined bag (no tracers or trackers, bugs or microphones, wires) and shouldering it. Steve stands and shakes Stark’s hand. He notices the touch linger briefly before Steve pulls his hand away and adds it to the list of... _things_ he's noticed.

“Thank you, Tony,” Steve says again, the gratefulness in his voice almost tinny, but still gold spun and laced through every syllable.

“Just don't get yourself killed,” Stark responds, raising an eyebrow and quirking his lips, “I don’t want to have to place a pile of ashes on the mantle.”

Steve smiles.

“I wouldn't let myself become a pile of ashes,” he jokes back, but Bucky somehow picks up the honesty in the words, too.

His fingers curl tighter around the bag strap.

 _This might be a mistake_.

He never makes mistakes.

\--

Bucky leads the way down to the station and Steve follows, head ducked down and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, hands in his pockets. He thought about trimming his nails before they left, but they'd just grow back before they even got there. Bucky hasn't looked back at him once. Steve sticks close like a shadow, like the shadow of Bucky that follows him, and _hopes_. He hasn't felt hope in so, so long.

They reach the train station with no problems, sticking to the shadows whenever they can. No one notices them, not for long, anyway. Sometimes a few eyes will linger on him every four blocks or so, but Steve feels them slide away after they pass. It's...a relief, not having their eyes stay on him, especially when all he wants is Bucky’s.

They sit quietly together as they head out of the center of the city, and Steve shifts just a little closer as they head into a tunnel. Bucky doesn’t say anything when their thighs gently press together, doesn’t move away. Part of Steve is worried that's a _bad_ thing, but mostly he just…

He lets out a slow breath, relaxing minutely.

Mostly, Steve just feels... _relieved_. He can _touch_ this Bucky. _God, he can touch him._

\-----

“ _Fury_.”

“General.”

Ross grunts.

“ _You took my specimen_.”

Fury's eye narrows slightly.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replies, “I didn't dispatch any agents to your area.”

Ross grunts again.

“ _So that's how it's going to be_.”

“You’re saying that to _me?_ ” Fury asks, raising his eyebrows, “I said you could _borrow_ Captain Rogers for _minor, relatively harmless questioning and testing_ , not the shit you pulled last night.”

“ _Threats need to be assessed, weaknesses found_ ,” Ross replies, stern, “ _You can't have something like that running around on the streets without knowing how to kill it. It might be your pet, like your ‘Avengers’, but it's not a man, not any more than the **Hulk** is. **More so**._ ”

Fury stands up from his desk, slowly rounding it with his hands behind his back. “Don’t lecture me on _threats_ ,” he says, deadly calm, one good eye focused on Ross’s, “You went behind my back and _tortured_ one of my team. You come near him, _any_ of them, and you'll understand just how I came to be who I am today.”

Ross straightens up a bit. “ _Is that a threat?_ ”

“No, that wasn't a threat,” Fury replies, raising his head, “But I founded the Avengers. Don't think I named them that just because it's catchy.”

Ross stares at him for a few moments before raising a cigar and lighting it, taking a puff. The smoke clouds over his image for a minute.

“ _See you on the battlefield_ ,” he says.

“No,” Fury replies, “You won’t see me coming.” He disconnects the call.

Lesson number one.

He opens another call.

“Get me Stark.”

\-----

Steve _jolts_ awake, blinking his eyes open. He looks over and then jerks himself up a bit to sitting, even though it feels like he's prying himself away from the other half of himself. Bucky doesn’t generate heat, but that was the warmest Steve’s felt in decades.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, glancing over again. Bucky just stares back, expression blank. He looks forward after a moment, then out the window. Steve’s not sure what to make of that, so he looks out the window, too.

They should almost be to the city they're headed for. Three different train stations and the span of a day and Bucky's finally deemed it safe enough to head to their destination.

Steve watches the world go by outside the window; the grass, the trees, the stars. He refocuses his eyes on Bucky’s reflection instead, Bucky’s eyes shifting in it after a minute to meet his.

Steve can hear all of the other passengers; hear their blood pumping, the rhythm of their hearts, their music devices and a few phones, games and low conversations. He can smell their anxiety and fear, their...comfort, their perfume and natural scents underneath. He can’t hear Bucky’s blood pumping, but he can smell the soft scent of him, the last vestige of his life, old and now, slightly sweet and barely there. It smells like home.

He sees Other Bucky shift in his right periphery, then take a seat down out of it. ‘ _He's not even telling us where we're going. I mean **I** haven't told us where we're going._’

‘ _Does it matter?_ ’ Steve thinks back.

‘ _Maybe not,_ ’ Other Bucky replies after a minute, soft and quiet. Steve listens to the train moving through the night. ‘ _He'll figure it out eventually. I will. About me_. _You_.’ Steve keeps his eyes unblinkingly on Bucky’s in the reflection. ‘ _What then?_ ’

‘... _I don't know_ ,’ Steve thinks, blinking once, slow, ‘ _I just want to stay by his side. Nothing’s stopping that, this time. Nothing. No one_. _I'll die first_.‘

‘ _Well_ ,’ Bucky says after a moment, ‘ _At least he hasn't pushed us away yet._ ’

Steve presses his leg a little into Bucky’s and Other Bucky was right, he doesn’t push Steve away. He even pushes his leg slightly _back_.


	10. I’ll do anything I can to make you comfortable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY, Y'ALL, GUESS WHAT. This is next on my list of Shit to Finish That's Been a Wip for Way Too Long. I'm going to post Chapters 10 & 11 so be on the lookout for 11. Kay's currently perusing through 12.  
> Thank you Kay (Stringlish) for betaing. <333  
> LET'S ROLL.  
> Music; https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ejzlg0SeKnY

They take the train to the end of the line, walk like lovers under moonlight to the docks and take a boat out to Europe. The blood packets they bring with them from Tony tie them over on the journey, but they’re out of them by the time they reach land. The boat driver and crew are spared, thankfully, none of them curious enough to wander too close or ask questions (not that a few didn’t steal glances). Steve coaxed them away while Bucky focused on the pitch black waves and dim seafoam, looking like he’d both wanted to fall into them and like he was terrified all at once.

They land.

Bucky drains a woman in Greece on their first day there. Steve had tried to find a blood bank, located a hospital but couldn’t find a way in in time, and by the time they’d reached land, the sun had been about ready to rise. 

Steve opts for a dog. He’s gone without for longer, but that was forced starvation. Besides, Bucky was less inclined to wait.

Steve had followed, watched, mourned (Bucky _and_ the woman), watched the way Bucky had hunted her like a predator, stalking prey down old, winding paths that have been there for longer than either of them (might continue to be), watched Bucky’s eyes glow like an animal’s, oil on water glimmering in the dark. Watched him clamp a firm hand around the woman’s mouth and an arm almost seductively around her waist before sinking his teeth into her exposed joining of neck and shoulder, pulling her body close like a lover. Steve had wanted to stop him. Other Bucky didn’t encourage him to.

Steve knows what that says about him, about both of them, the kind of people they are now that he’s beginning to see in a better light, under the stars.

What had surprised him most, though, was Bucky stopping, pulling the daggers of his teeth out - flashing bright in a stray street lamp, blood almost sparkling a deep wine red where it dripped from his chin while her pulse was still beating and her eyes glazed over, but alive - presumably lost in the orgasmic high of the bite - and look over at him, then tilt his head towards her in question, in invitation. Steve had swallowed, eyes shifting between the two, and tried to fight-

His throat had closed up and each swallow got dryer and dryer, and Bucky, looking at him, watching, waiting to see what he would do-

Steve had walked forward while Bucky shifted her, held her towards him like an offering-

Steve stopped and shook his head, taking a step back. Bucky didn’t say a word, just dipped his head and went back to feeding, only stopping when her eyes had become empty and her body a lifeless weight in his arms. Steve took her wallet out long enough to memorize her name while Bucky took her cash and clawed over the bite to distort it, then Steve helped him dispose of her body.

She had only been nineteen.

Steve tries not to dwell on that and fails. He went without killing someone for so long, _so long_ , and now his days-without-casualties count is back to zero. Even if Bucky had been the one who did it, Steve didn’t try to stop him at all. He _should_ have, part of him _wanted_ to, but...he just…didn’t. Maybe it’s because he understands the hunger, maybe it’s because he’s too glad to have Bucky back to risk spooking or coming into conflict with him yet, maybe Steve is worse off than he thought he was, maybe there _is_ no reason. His own body doesn’t seem to have a problem with it, pain twinging in his stomach, throughout his being demanding for its own food, but he still feels...heavy, the weight of her life added onto the rest on his shoulders.

He drains a dog three streets away, dog tags gripped in his palm to keep them from jingling like a bell in the quiet of the night. He’s quick when he slashes with his claws to obscure the bite, apologizes to its cooling body and stares up for a minute at the back of the owner's house before he and Bucky go, fading away into the night to disappear like the last beat of the woman’s heart, like the pet’s the family will mourn come morning. Steve can still feel the impression of the dog tags in his hand, see the woman’s smiling face on her license.

Lucas.

Evangelina.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, either of them, and Steve keeps quiet too.

A missing woman and a dead dog will draw little attention, but it’s attention all the same. He and Bucky leave the city that night. 

This train ride is quiet, like the others. Steve can hear the other passengers breathing, music playing muffled and tinny from someone’s headphones three rooms away; his forehead rocks slightly, gently where it’s resting against the window. The glass is cold, or at least he thinks it would be, but he’s slept in colder for longer so it barely registers. Bucky’s sitting opposite him, eyes closed when Steve glances at him again. Other Bucky sits quietly next to himself, reflection absent next to his in the window. Steve huffs a soft sound, lips quirking slightly, and Real Bucky opens his eyes.

“We cast reflections,” Steve explains quietly, lips tilted up slightly, when he catches Bucky looking at him. Bucky looks to the window for a moment and then closes his eyes again. Other Bucky just watches them.

They climb off at their stop and keep moving, drifting through the gathering and waning night populace like pale specters, shoulders bumping every other step and making them briefly tangible and real. 

For all that Steve is sad about the woman and the dog, feels the weight of them, with every brush of his shoulder against Bucky’s, he feels a spark of happiness for the first time in a long time, too.

\-----

Winter Soldier drifts, dreams of...colors, bright colors, after they’ve found a place to stay in Paris. Maybe that’s why he dreams of them. Paris is bright and full of so much life. There’s so much of it everywhere, in almost every little nook and cranny, it seems, and whether in the mud and grime or the sparkling, energetic throng of activity, the early morning sunlight washes everything in golds and pinks and something not-quite orange-peach, turns the city royal hued and warm.

He cracks his eyes open and looks to the right.

Steve isn’t hurting from the sunlight yet where he’s dozing in a streak of it, and even with his lack of complexion, or maybe because of it, the colors wash over him, too. He looks-

Winter Soldier closes his eyes.

He looks too bright to be where he is. The thought rings familiar, somewhere deep and far down:

 _He shouldn’t be here_ ; _he shouldn’t be here with me_.

It makes him almost...angry. Of all the emotions, he’s been feeling that one rise more frequently, but he doesn’t know what to _do_ with it.

Something presses into either side of his stomach and he tenses, snapping out of _dozing_ and into full wakefulness as he tenses, bracing himself. He opens his eyes again-

And stops, mind skidding.

There’s a long, pale throat above him, silent and still, no pulse, and a deep, dark blue hoodie dipping down towards his face.

“What-” he starts.

“ _Shh_ ,” Steve cuts him off softly, knees digging just a little more into his sides when Steve shifts, slowly leaning forward on a hand with his other arm outstretched, moving at a snail’s pace. “C’mere,” Steve whispers, brows pulled together in concentration and eyes focused forward, somewhere up beyond Bucky’s head, “We won’t hurt you. We’ve got our teeth put away.”

Bucky hears it then, the soft _swish_ of something moving. He slowly, slowly tilts his head back and looks up, eyes following the stretched length of Steve’s arm and elegant hand and lengthened, sharp nails to a small, dirty-white kitten sitting in the sunlight on the windowsill, tail slashing back and forth, the light giving its fur a dark gold back-glow. He feels Steve’s thighs tense against his sides, getting ready to spring, and the kitten takes off barely before Steve does, the Soldier’s hands coming up to grip and support Steve’s waist when Steve nearly comes down on _him_.

“It was just a kitten,” Steve says after a few minutes of silence, unmoving. But what is time to something like them? Seconds quickly turn to hours. “All alone,” Steve finishes.

The Soldier says nothing, Bucky doesn’t either.

Steve shifts and the weight in the Soldier’s hands feels more controlled now, but it shifts just a little closer instead of away.

He’s not oblivious. He knows Steve touches him whenever possible, strains to be physically closer to him through little touches, like a hand on his forearm, an outer thigh pressed to his own while they’re sitting on a train, shoulders bumping when they walk, and now this. Just like the anger, he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Eventually, Steve slowly moves back on his own, straddling and then climbing off of him to lay back next to him on the old, wooden floorboards. Their shoulders touch, all the way down their arms to their wrists, hands angled apart, a split in the river of them.

After another minute of silence, of the Soldier staring up at the cracks in the ceiling, Steve hums quietly, a song that sounds vaguely familiar but that he doesn’t know. He closes his eyes to the sunlight rays slanted above them and listens.

\--

He doesn’t hear Bucky’s breath even out because Bucky has none, but Steve knows he’s sleeping. He’s been quickly re-fine tuning himself to Bucky, this Bucky, as much as he can. It’s taken a little more than a few days. A lot of Real Bucky is different, but the things that are similar from Before Steve’s quickly found himself rooted in again: the long silences from the war, always being physically aware of him like a second skin. And while he cannot hear Bucky’s breath, the silence leaves space open for other things and other sounds.

‘ _It’s nice having him here, isn’t it?_ ’

Steve remains still, tracking one of the fine lines in the ceiling plaster.

‘ _He’s not back, though. He might never be. He fed on that woman and offered her to you.’_

 _‘That’s enough, Bucky_ ,’ Steve thinks quietly.

Other Bucky rolls closer in his periphery, onto his side, cheek propped up in one hand and elbow on the floor. He rolls closer still, after a moment, onto his stomach. ‘ _Wanna know a secret?_ ’ he asks.

Steve continues to stare at the ceiling.

‘ _Even right now, lying next to him, you still miss him_.’

Steve closes and then squeezes his eyes shut. He slowly relaxes again and opens them, turning his head just a little and slanting his gaze down from the ceiling to Other Bucky, covered in blue.

‘Other Bucky’. He’s been thinking it since before they left the States. ‘Other Bucky’ and ‘Real Bucky’. But there isn’t much dividing them, not outwardly. Or maybe inwardly? It gets confusing trying to think about it, so he doesn’t.

 _‘Are you jealous?’_ Steve asks. Bucky scowls a little, trying to hide it by pursing his lips instead, looking away. ‘ _You’re still my best friend, Buck_.’ Because Real or Not Real, this Bucky has been with him the longest, through the ice, longer than Real Bucky, even. 

His heart _pangs_ in his chest, a sharp, hard ache.

Did Real Bucky have a Not Real Steve this whole time, too? What if he didn’t? Did he go through all those years _alone?_ It makes Steve feel better and it makes him feel worse. He’s so selfish, and afraid to ask. What will Real Bucky think of _this_ Bucky? Steve still hasn’t told him. He’s afraid of that, too.

‘ _Yeah_ ,’ Bucky replies, looking back up and then across Steve to Real Bucky, ‘ _So is he_.’

Steve’s brow furrows a little. ‘ _There’s room enough for the both of you_ ,’ he thinks a little desperately, but it’s weaker than he’d like as the drowsiness catches back up.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, and eventually, Steve’s eyes finally start to droop. He reaches over, slides his hand across the dirt-dusty wood and the space between them, his fingernails and fingertips slipping right through Bucky, always right through him.

Before Steve nods off, he thinks he hears Bucky say, ‘ _For now_ ,’ but he can’t be sure.

\-----

“What’s our plan?” Steve asks, tries to keep his fingers to himself. It’s enough that their shoulders brush gently as they walk down the street. It’s more than enough. It needs to be.

He ignores Other Bucky’s sidelong look, blue peacoat bright and out of place in the setting sun of Paris. The other Bucky wears black. Steve’s never seen him wear bright colors this century.

There’s just the sound of their steps for a minute, rubber soles soft on ancient cobblestone. There’s no need to rush, they have forever. Steve would wait as old as these stones are, longer, for Bucky to say something, anything.

“I didn’t have one beyond getting you out,” Real Bucky eventually replies, eyes straight ahead.

Steve warms inside, but keeps his eyes away, tries not to let them shift over (again). He watches street lights flicker on and glow soft, echo the ones in open and closed shop windows, French and English sharing breath across the logos. He knows he’s been staring at Bucky too much already. Steve might die if he scares him off (either one of them).

“The government is after you,” Bucky adds after a while, still quiet, just for their ears. Steve almost forgot what that was like, the real Bucky doing it. He has to be careful how he reacts now, and this Bucky can’t hear him inside his head.

“Hydra is after you,” Steve counters.

They’re both quiet again.

He misses Bucky’s laugh, swift and sudden and with the force of the Valkyrie nose diving into the frozen tundra of the north.

 _Please let me hear you laugh_.

Like windchimes and bells and a millon other beautiful sounds ricocheting around his empty insides and filling all his spaces, making his body, heart, and head sing, a beautiful song.

 _Please love me_ , his mind whispers, _Want me. Need me_ , some old, childish part of him pleads, _Keep me_.

They keep walking, shoulders brushing. Steve wants to hold his hand, but Bucky’s is in the safe haven of his pocket, behind enemy lines. So Steve clenches his teeth faintly, fingers curling on his other side, hidden from Real Bucky’s view.

 _I should call the others_ , he thinks distantly, far enough away to seem like miles, _Let them know I’m alive_. _No, Tony probably took care of that. Maybe._

‘ _I’m alive_ ’.

He snorts quietly and immediately straightens when he feels eyes on him. Bucky doesn’t say anything. Neither of them do.

It’s a distant thought, calling the others. That’s all it is.

They walk.

“We could just keep going,” Steve eventually suggests, keeps his eyes forward like a teenage girl trying to avoid the rejection of her affections. It feels silly, important, vital. “We could just keep walking until we’re back where we started.” He stops, finally looks over at Bucky. “Here.”

Bucky stops and watches him out of the corner of his eye over the edge of his sunglasses before turning his head to stare at him, eyes catching in the lamplight and glimmering like gasoline on water, made brighter in the growing dark where the shadow of his silhouette made by the setting sun behind him clouds him over like rain clouds. 

Steve’s breath catches. He’s beautiful.

“You’re serious,” Bucky says. Steve stares back, Other Bucky’s eyes burning a hole into his head. For a minute, Steve can smell his flesh burning and healing and cooking again. “They will hunt us.”

 _We could hunt them_ , part of Steve’s brain whispers. He’s not sure if it’s him or Other Bucky. “We’ll manage,” he says instead. Because otherwise he’ll say they have each other, and he’s not brave enough to risk losing Bucky again.

Bucky keeps watching him for another moment before he starts walking again, Steve jolting slightly and hurrying to stay close.

‘ _He won’t do it_ ’, Other Bucky says, glancing over at him, ‘ _Part of you was hoping he wouldn’t. He’s changed_ ’, Bucky adds, skittering Steve’s thoughts to a halt, ‘ _He’s not the man you knew. You aren’t either_ ’, Bucky finishes, almost apologetic. Almost.

It’s quiet for another while, just the sounds of insects and the distant shore, waves crashing against sand and rock.

‘ _Doesn’t change anything_ ’, Steve thinks eventually, ‘ _I’ll follow him_.’

‘ _‘Till you’re nothing but sand and dust, too_ ,’ Other Bucky whispers throughout his head,‘ _Till the end of the line_ ’.

Now if only the real Bucky next to him would say it.

Steve stops as they’re passing another bakery and turns, leans close to stare in the window. He can smell the baked goods when a customer exits the shop, the doorbell chiming out into the dying light. He doesn’t desire to eat them, can only remember what that feeling was like. It’s different with blood. But they look warm and inviting.

 _A flash of pale skin, Bucky’s fangs sunk into a slender neck_ -

“Do you miss food?” Steve asks distractedly, forcing his thoughts away. He doesn’t know which Bucky he’s speaking to, maybe both.

“No,” Real Bucky answers after a minute, “But sometimes I miss the taste of...cooking.”

Cooking?

Steve looks over. 

His mother’s?

He swallows. 

Any other possibility is sickening.

It’s quiet for a moment, then Bucky says, “I had a mother once, didn’t I.”

Steve nods.

Bucky watches him. “Do you know what her cooking was like?”

“Good,” Steve eventually answers, turning his eyes back to the pies and rolls almost glowing in the shop window’s display, “Like coming in from a downpour.” They’d been soaked and Steve had caught pneumonia that night for the second time that year. “Warm and filling, in your mouth and in your stomach. Solid, but kind of soft too.” Not like flesh, but almost.

He swallows again, brushes his tongue along the edge of one of his fangs. He pulls his eyes from the window to look back over at Bucky, who does the same, dragging gray eyes back to him. After a minute, Bucky turns and heads into the shop, Steve hesitating briefly before following.

A few minutes later they’re back on the street, a bag of a warm pastry in Steve’s hand, one in Bucky’s. The warmth feels good and the smell makes Steve’s eyelids flutter briefly, shoulder bumping gently with Bucky’s. It’s the warmest Steve’s been in years. He wonders if it’s the same for Bucky.


	11. Wash away my colors

‘ _We could go anywhere, and you want to go back into enemy territory?_ ’

‘ _Everywhere is enemy territory now_ ,’ Steve returns from where he’s laying on his stomach on the third floor of the abandoned church, dust in his nose and feet swaying in the air behind him. He frowns a little, refocuses on the stolen laptop’s screen and scrolls down the page. ‘ _There’s a haunted asylum in_ -’

‘ _I don’t think he’ll risk security so you can go there_ ,’ Other Bucky counters. Steve holds in a sigh and doesn’t disagree. Other Bucky rolls onto his side next to him, blue in his periphery, and puts his chin in a hand. ‘ _Just because we’ve been traveling the world, doesn’t mean we’re sightseeing. Pick something closer. A **lot** closer_. _You’ll be lucky if he lets us leave the perimeter_. _I’m surprised we’re still in Paris_.’

Steve does sigh quietly at that, resting his own chin down on his forearm on the floor, gently kicking his feet back and forth in the air behind him. Real Bucky raises his head from where he’s cleaning a gun in Steve’s periphery.

“What...would you…” Steve trails off, struggling to figure out a way to word it, “Can you remember ever seeing the Eiffel Tower lit at night?” He sways his feet opposing directions from side to side, crisscrossing them before his ankles can ever hit while he waits.

It’s quiet for a time before Bucky eventually answers a solitary, “Yes,” which seems to be all Steve’s going to get out of him.

“Oh.” Steve stops his feet. He feels like a teenager again, _again_ , trying to talk to a crush he doesn’t know how to communicate with because Real Bucky’s _different, Steve’s_ different. “What about...seeing it with me, then?” He risks a glance over.

Bucky stares back, still as a statue.

Steve forces his eyes back to the side. “The last time I saw it was in 1944. It was standing in the distance, silhouetted by fire and smoke and clouds of ash from bombings. You told me it was like the Statue of Liberty: ‘ _A lady not meant to fall, who’d still be standing when we made it back and long after we were gone_ ’.” He tilts his head to the side, glancing at Other Bucky, the blue of his peacoat, the blood soaked into the left sleeve now that Steve _knows_. 

He hasn’t said anything about Bucky’s left arm. He’s seen glimpses of the metal of Bucky’s hand, felt it extend all the way up to his shoulder when Bucky was carrying him when he saved Steve from Ross, but he hasn’t said anything, just like Bucky hasn’t, hasn’t thought anything either. Steve doesn’t know what to think except ‘ _my fault’_. He can smell the metal from where he’s lying ten feet away from Bucky, can faintly smell the wires and circuits hidden underneath.

His chest aches.

“I always wondered, before the plane, if that was true,” Steve continues, watching the blood drop from Other Bucky’s blue sleeve to pool on the wooden floorboards, “I thought I’d probably last even longer then, but that you...But what would it be like to see the Eiffel Tower how it was before the war? With lights and clear sky behind it. Would I see enemy troops if I stood at the top of it? Friendlies? What did it look like from up there before the war, during, after?”

He blinks out of his daze, glancing over at Real Bucky before looking away again. He looked solemn, like he usually does, but a little curious, too.

“I know we’re being hunted, but can’t we live too?” Steve asks.

“...’Live’?” Bucky asks back, low and almost flat. 

Steve pushes himself up onto his forearms, darting his eyes over.

Bucky stares back, the curiosity gone, replaced with hints of anger. “Living is for the Living; we are dead,” he states.

Steve stares this time, chest aching. He forces his eyes away to find Other Bucky staring at him over the top of the laptop, only his eyes visible, pale and blue and cold. _Alien_.

Steve jerks up to sitting, eyes down on the floor.

_Dead. You’re dead. I’m dead. Monster. We’re monsters remember. **Monster.**_

“Rogers.”

_“Rogers.”_

_“Steve!”_

Steve squeezes his eyes shut, nails piercing his palms, scent of the tang of blood filling the air.

‘ _Steve_.’

He forces his eyes open. Everything spins for a second before righting itself. He looks up.

Real Bucky’s kneeling where Other Bucky was, clawed hand resting on top of the closed laptop lid, Other Bucky sitting on his knees next to him. Two sets of eyes, the same color, neither as cold as moments before.

“You don’t have to tell me what I am,” Steve says quietly. _I already know_.

Bucky stares at him a moment before sitting up a little, then gets up and walks back over to where he was cleaning his gun. Steve watches him until he sits and picks it up again before looking back down to the closed laptop, to his hands. He raises them and licks the blood clean, the cuts already mostly healed.

‘ _He cares_ ,’ Other Bucky says softly, ‘ _But he doesn’t know what to do with you_.’

‘ _Is that it?_ ’ Steve asks. He’s grateful if it’s true, but he’s always been selfish, because being left alone still hurts.

“What are we going to do about food?” he asks after a little while, after he’s opened the laptop again and found the nearest local blood bank, “We can’t keep killing civilians and house pets.” Steve still hasn’t tried to stop Bucky, not really, not until now. They’ve both cut down on their feeding to be less noticeable and it’s manageable, but he still doesn’t like Bucky taking people’s lives. 

“Robbing blood banks is more obvious,” Bucky replies. Steve glances over but Bucky’s still cleaning his gun. Where did he get it, anyway? Doesn’t really matter.

Steve’s lips flatten. “We can’t keep killing-”

“You can’t,” Bucky cuts him off. 

Steve pauses. Bucky looks up at him and Steve uses the guise of looking away to find Other Bucky, who’s watching him curiously and gives an unhelpful shrug. “They’re people,” Steve tells them both. 

“They’re still food,” Real Bucky replies. 

Steve looks over sharply at that. “They’re more than that.”

“That doesn’t negate their being sustenance,” Real Bucky counters simply, looking back down at his gun.

Steve’s lips curl down a little. No matter how much he doesn’t like it-

_Bucky pulls his teeth out of her slim, paling neck, fangs bright and blood stained in the night. He looks up at Steve and tilts his head slightly to the side in question, in offer._

...it’s not _not_ true.

“We don’t have the right,” Steve says quietly, “They’re alive, like they should be, and we’re not, like you said. We’re stealing from them when we should be-”

 _Dead_.

 _We are dead_ , he thinks, _I’m dead_.

Bucky pauses, considering. “Taking their lives is your main concern?”

Now Steve pauses, frowning a little. “We don’t have the right to take _any_ of it.”

“They will recover if we don’t take it all,” Bucky replies, looking over at him thoughtfully, “I was able to make a man and woman tell me what I wanted. If we do that to the people we feed on, will that satisfy you?”

Steve frowns further, looking away. He’d already thought of that a long time go. Hell, in one desperate moment, he’d _done_ it, but it doesn’t stop the guilt, the feeling that he’s taking something he shouldn’t.

...But, if Bucky doesn’t know how to use his compulsion, if he ever _needs_ to...maybe Steve should teach him. It might save his life someday, like it had Steve’s in the war. 

“We cannot afford to be vulnerable,” Bucky says, pulling Steve out if his head. That brings his argument to a halt and their situation back to the forefront, because Bucky’s right. They can’t.

Steve worries the inside of his cheek a little, frowning still. After a minute, he makes up his mind.

“I know how to do it. It’s called ‘compulsion’,” he explains. Bucky leans forward a little, listening, focused like Steve’s giving him something important. He holds in a shudder. It’s nice, being under Bucky’s focus.

“Tell me how,” Bucky almost demands, and Steve sits up a little straighter.

“You just…” he trails off, thinking. He’ll lose the argument, and Bucky will be free to feed off of whoever he wants, compel anyone, as far as Steve knows, but with people after them, if Bucky ever needed it...it’s better that he knows, for his own safety. There’s a lot Steve would risk for that. “I focus on how much I really want to know or impart something on someone else while maintaining eye contact, and it works,” he explains, “You have to look them in the eye.”

Bucky continues to watch him. “Does it work on things other than human?”

“It doesn’t work on animals,” Steve answers, “It just agitates them. I’ve never tried it on another vampire. I don’t know if our abilities are the same either. My eyes glow a little when I do it,” he adds quickly.

Bucky sits back a little, seeming to think something over. His eyebrows draw down together and his lips thin, eyes on the floor before he seems to come to a decision and looks back up. “Do it to me,” he orders.

Steve sits up a little more. “Are you sure?” He hasn’t asked about any of it, but Bucky is different, so different, outside and inside. Steve doesn’t want to make it worse.

But Bucky nods, eyes blank, and Steve resolves himself again and squares his shoulders, and nods back. He won’t break Bucky’s trust again, even if it’s a trust forced on them out of necessity and circumstance. It’s a precious thing, and Steve wants to _keep_ _it_.

He focuses on Bucky’s eyes, wanting- No, something simple. 

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

“Yes,” Bucky answers simply.

Right. Not exactly the best question.

“Touch your finger to the tip of your nose,” Steve commands. Bucky doesn’t move. Steve relaxes.

“It doesn’t work,” Bucky concludes.

“Try it on me,” Steve suggests.

Bucky stares at him, eyes slowly glowing a low red. “Tap the floor with your fingers.”

Steve feels...nothing.

The red glow dims before fading away.

 _That’s kind of a relief to know_ , Steve thinks, relaxing a little more.

Bucky’s eyes drop to the floor for a few moments before he goes back to cleaning his gun. Steve watches him for a while.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, but after Bucky’s done cleaning his three guns and four knives, he stands. Steve’s eyes focus at the sudden movement and he looks up. Bucky doesn’t say anything, just watches him for a moment before heading to the door, turning and nodding to the hall after he gets it open. Steve scrambles to his feet and follows him out.

Bucky leads him down street after street around the center of the city. Steve’s breathing picks up a little when he realizes where they might be going.

It turns out he’s right, and his heart is in his throat when they finally come to a stop. He follows Bucky up the Eiffel Tower.

Well, more glances around to make sure they’re alone at the late hour before leaping up under the cover of its great shadow. They go all the way to the top, or as close to it as they can get. They go all the way up to the base of the antenna, above the topmost viewing platform, and look out into the night.

If Steve was still breathing, the air would be caught in his throat, strangled like a trapped bird.

“Breathtaking,” he finally breathes, eyes transfixed on the spread of Paris, stretched out from her heart to the tips of her toes and fingers. 1944 layers over the present for a minute and Other Bucky at his side becomes a lot more real.

Steve sets his hands on the metal rail and leans forward.

“Does it look like you thought?” Real Bucky eventually asks, quiet words carried by the wind past Steve and out into the starlit city night. 

Steve continues staring, not blinking even when the wind dries his eyes. He can see both the past and the present, has them both here at his sides. All of his imaginings for this moment, and they pale.

“It’s different,” he eventually replies, just as quiet, “Lesser and more. You were standing on my right.” He looks down at the ground far below, glances over towards Bucky’s left hand hidden by his body and then back out at the sprawling city again.

‘ _Maybe he hit something on the way down_ ,’ Other Bucky tortures him with. Steve’s fingers curl a little tighter around the railing, metal denting faintly under his fingers.

 _Hydra_ , Steve thinks. That’s what Bucky said at Stark Tower.

‘ _And you said you didn’t care_ ,’ Other Bucky quips.

‘ _I didn’t_ ,’ Steve thinks, ‘ _I still don’t. I used to care about what they were doing to the world, but if dying twice made so little difference in stopping them…_ ’ he trails off. ‘ _Now I’m angry about what they did to **him**_.’ His fingers dig a little sharper into the rail, metal _whining_ faintly.

‘ _We’ll kill them all_ ,’ Bucky promises. 

Steve closes his eyes. ‘ _He fell...my fault. They must have-....maybe **they** took his arm_.’

The wind rushes up and pulls him from his thoughts, letting go of the railing with a hand to keep his hat on his head. He lets it go when the wind dies down to a gentle breeze again and sets his hand back on the railing, climbing up after a moment to stand on it, looking out at the city, slowly drawing his eyes down to the ground. He steps forward and falls-

Before he can fall more than seven feet, he’s jerked to a hard, sharp stop by a hard grip on his wrist, eyes slanting up. Real Bucky stares back, eyes hard and angry and glowing faintly like the city lights.

“ _What are you doing?_ ” he demands.

“You fell from the train because I didn’t catch you,” Steve answers calmly, “I wanted to know what it was like.” The Eiffel Tower isn’t as tall, he doesn’t think, but it’s a close enough height.

Bucky stares at him for a minute, one hand resting on the railing even though he doesn’t need it, a human reaction. Steve can’t feel like he weighs more than a small bag of flour, if that. Finally, “The museum said I died for that country.”

“No,” Steve replies quietly, eyes softening, “You died for me. Because of me. It’s my fault you’re here as you are, that your arm is gone.”

Bucky goes still in a fractional way and Steve thinks he might drop him, but instead, Bucky lifts him back over the railing like Steve’s as light as he knew he was, like a small bird Bucky’s found on the ground, fallen from its nest. He sets him back on the platform.

“Then don’t _waste_ it,” Bucky growls out, ripping his hand from Steve’s wrist like it’s made of sunlight and turning to storm off in the other direction. Steve stares after him-

The Eiffel Tower goes up in a brilliant, blinding flash of blue light bright like the sun and heavy bells sound off in the distance, a low murmuring crowd cheering among the _rings_ and _gongs_.

Steve slowly lowers his arm from where he threw it up to cover his eyes, blinking slowly as they try to adjust and quickly finds Bucky doing the same. They share a glance before looking out towards the sound of the bells as the Eiffel Tower’s lights start alternating a myriad of nearly blinding colors.

And it hits him-

“Oh,” Steve says, eyes widening a little, “It’s Christmas.”

As if on cue, a white flake floats down past the edge of his hat, and then a breeze blows it away, takes it out past the lights as more begin to fall. 

Steve looks up, keeping his hat on with a hand on top of it, eyes shielded from the snowflakes by the fake glasses perched on his nose. “Merry Christmas, Bucky,” he says aloud to both of them. 

‘ _Happy Hanukkah_ ,’ Other Bucky returns.

A distant choir fills in the space where Real Bucky says nothing at all.

Steve watches him where he’s standing six feet away, staring out at the city, the Tower’s lights reflecting off of his eyes like their predatory night vision, hidden by their brilliance. Steve’s breath catches for the second time that night and the first time that morning.

Bucky eventually turns away and Steve hurries to catch up, Other Bucky a trailing blue ghost at his side, fitting in perfectly with the Tower and snow.


	12. First love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **HI GUYS. PLEASE READ THIS.**  
>  This chapter is _nsfw_ (Kay said she felt dirty reading it SORRY) and I have a couple notes:  
>  1\. There is a song posted in this chapter that you should listen to when you come to it, it adds to the mood. Here are the translated lyrics;  
> http://pipxseras.livejournal.com/67564.html  
> 2\. I made art for a scene and I posted it in the chapter as well.  
> Enjoy! (Er 'enjoy?' XD)

Steve watches the snow covered world slowly start to roll by as the train gradually picks up speed out of the station, saying a silent goodbye to Paris. The train’s mostly empty since it’s the day after Christmas, and they are alone in this car. He wants to get Bucky something, but what do you get a ninety-seven year old, ex-assassin vampire with a missing arm and memory issues? Especially while they’re on the run. He hasn’t come up with anything yet.

‘ _Maybe a harmonica?_ ’ Other Bucky asks. Steve sends him a glance where he’s sitting in the empty seat to his left while Real Bucky’s focused on the book he snatched out of the train station, sitting across from Steve. ‘ _What?_ ’ Other Bucky asks, ‘ _At least then he’d make some noise. ...If he doesn’t just throw the thing out_ ,’ he adds in a mutter.

Steve’s lips twitch; he manages to keep it faint.

Real Bucky closes and puts his book down in the empty seat next to him and says, “It’s time.”

Steve frowns a little.

Time?

The door at the other end of the car slides open and Steve frowns a little more when Bucky’s eyes purposefully shift to it after a moment, then back. Steve turns his head a little to glance between the seats out of the corner of his eye.

“ _Can I get you two anything?_ ” the attendant asks in French once she reaches their seats, smile smooth and equally smooth, dark brown hair pulled back into a professional bun at the back of her neck. Steve and Bucky both shake their heads, Bucky with a welcoming smile and Steve with a tight-lipped one. She returns one much bigger and warmer. “ _Just let me know if you change your minds_.”

Steve watches her head down the rest of the train car from underneath the edge of his cap, disappearing past the sliding door at the other end of the car. A few moments later, Bucky’s getting up. Before Steve can follow, Bucky gives him a subtle shake of his head and then disappears down and past the sliding door too, leaving Steve staring from his seat.

‘ _We haven’t eaten in a while_ ,’ Other Bucky comments.

‘ _Still doesn’t make it right,_ ’ Steve returns.

Other Bucky appears in Real Bucky’s seat across from him and looks out the window. ‘ _A hell of a lot of things aren’t._ ’

Steve holds his tongue at that. He’s not in the mood to talk in circles.

After another seven minutes, the door finally opens again and Bucky comes back, closing it behind him, but he doesn’t sit back down. He jerks his chin slightly as he passes, smelling of fresh warmth and blood. Steve gets up and follows him to the attached bathroom in the short, tiny hall at the other end of the car. Bucky steps in and Steve follows when Bucky gestures for him to, locking the door behind himself.

They struggle for a moment in the cramped space, trying to situate themselves, Steve unsure of what Bucky wants before Bucky makes a low, frustrated growl in his throat and jerks up his right sleeve, yanking Steve close by the hip.

“Drink,” he orders, lifting his forearm to Steve’s face.

Steve blinks, trying not to press himself closer to Bucky and failing. There’s so much contact it’s nearly overwhelming, and Bucky’s so much larger all over than he used to be.

“Is she still alive?” Steve makes himself ask past all the distraction. He can smell the warmth still humming faintly under Bucky’s skin, fresh and waiting, can feel Bucky from thigh to hip. It’s more physical contact than they’ve had since Bucky rescued him.

Bucky gives him a flat look like the answer is obvious. “Asleep in the kitchenette area. Drink,” he commands, eyes flashing red briefly even though compulsion won’t work, “We’ll share.”

Steve looks down to Bucky’s forearm and back up to his eyes, then slowly reaches up and gently wraps his fingers around Bucky’s wrist like it’s made of glass, leaning his head down and parting his teeth.

And all his complaints and morals fly out the window at the first taste. It’s still warm, as fresh as it smelled beneath Bucky’s skin, and Bucky’s subtle scent is in his nose with it as Steve draws in a mouthful, then another, eyelids falling heavily shut. He can’t help the small moan muffled against Bucky’s arm, or leaning more heavily into him. Steve hasn’t had human blood this fresh in over sixty _years_.

He groans low and quiet, can feel parts of his body stir that haven’t in decades and only then notices that Bucky’s has as well, pressed as he is all along Bucky’s front now, _realizes_ he is. But everything is warm and hazy and _good_ , and he can’t care. Animals aren’t nearly as satisfying, and blood packets are like flat leftovers, but _this_ , this has no words.

A finger slides down along his jaw and Steve eases up, pulls his teeth out and his mouth off completely when Bucky starts to pull his arm away. He hazily watches Bucky lick the puncture marks clean, Steve licking the few drops left on his lower lip.

He watches Bucky through half-lidded eyes while Bucky watches him, finally feels the hand holding his hip and wants to _purr_. There’s so much contact when Bucky’s barely given him any, when Steve’s rarely _had_ any about as long as it’s been since he had fresh blood. Maybe he does purr a little because Bucky’s lips twitch slightly and Steve _loves_ _it_.

“Thank you,” Steve manages, tongue heavy in his mouth. It wasn’t filling, but it was good enough to tie him over until they reach their destination.

Bucky gives a small nod. He feels kind of stiff under Steve now that Steve’s paying more attention, besides all the muscles. He’s changed since the war. Whatever Hydra did has made him hard and sharp, a beautiful, terrible thing.

After a minute, Bucky nods his chin towards the door and Steve tries to hold in a groan of displeasure, but makes himself pull away and stand on his own.

“Wait for one minute,” Bucky tells him before pulling the door open and squeezing out of the bathroom. Steve sighs but does as he’s told, glancing to the side at himself in the narrow mirror.

“Fuck you,” he tells it, pulling the door open exactly sixty seconds later and slipping out into the hall, heading back to his seat where Bucky’s got his book back open and seems to be reading like nothing happened, nothing at all.

\-----

The world around them is full of a quiet, subtle thrum of activity. Christmas is over but there are talks of the approaching New Year at almost every turn and corner. At least, that’s what Steve’s getting from the bits and pieces of German he understands. His vocabulary in it is a lot more limited than in French, thanks to the war and Dernier and Gabe, respectfully. Real Bucky, both surprisingly and somehow not, seems to be fluent in both.

Steve frowns down at the stolen burner phone Bucky got him, tapping the keypad buttons to scroll while he silently mouths the German lessons he’s reading to himself as they walk. Real Bucky stops at his side and Steve automatically stops with him, glancing over when Bucky starts talking to a young man, raising his arms a bit and gesturing while looking like a lost and confused tourist. His breath doesn’t fog in the air but the young man doesn’t seem to notice, eyes already glazed over a bit. Steve can see a faint red glow from the corner of Bucky’s sunglasses. He turns his phone screen off and slips it into his pocket when the man starts leading Bucky down a nearby alley.

Eventually they come to a stop somewhere dark and secluded and quiet, past the low hum of excited voices in and out of buildings. Steve stands watch in the deepest shadows closest to the alley entrance and tries not to watch Bucky stalk closer to his prey in his periphery, tries to ignore the sound of the faint sucked in breath of pain and the smell of fresh, warm blood.

He frowns, listening to Bucky’s throat work, the rush of blood, trying to ignore how his own throat goes tight and dry, the way his fingers slowly curl and uncurl without his say like they want to _dig_ into flesh, the way the whole-body ache he’s been feeling for the past day grows sharp and insistent.

Finally, Bucky stops, speaks low and calm as he bandages the wound on the man’s arm and then sends him off on his dazed and stumbling way. Bucky grabs Steve’s wrist next and leads him to another alley before pushing up his sleeve and offering out his right arm.

Steve _lunges_ for it.

He still doesn’t like feeding on humans, by proxy or not, but... _God_ , it‘s _good_ , especially like this.

It’s not like food, not like he remembers it. The closest he can compare it to is it’s like drinking water after being starved, like drinking sunlight and all the things that are living and warm, making _him_ alive and warm in ways he no longer is, the feeling heightened so much from how it was when he _was_ alive.

He leans into Bucky, sucking in another mouthful before Bucky starts pulling his arm away, Steve giving a last, desperate lick, warmth from the mouthful of blood fogging the air, an illusion of breath.

Bucky doesn’t seem to find the experience nearly as enthralling, even when Steve can feel the physical evidence against his hip, but he could be hiding it. The most open emotions Steve’s seen from him are anger and a blank mask, occasionally surprise. But he lets Steve lean on him like this, lets him touch and be close. As much as Steve hates feeding on people, it’s nearly worth it for this.

“I should just...find a dog,” Steve gets out, eyelids still heavy.

“No one will report a bandaged cut they don’t remember getting,” Bucky replies, and that’s true. People report murdered pets, stolen blood from hospitals and blood banks, dead bodies, but not a mysterious, non-life threatening cut that looks like it’s already been professionally taken care of. It’s strange, maybe, but they’ll just brush it off with the help of Bucky’s compulsion. This is the safest way to feed right now, too, even if Steve’s hungry more frequently and feels guilt every time on the tail of the ecstasy.

Bucky leads him out of the alley and back to the abandoned building they’re staying in, faces and hats tilted down away from any security cameras and shoulders brushing. Steve can’t help his lips twitching up in a small smile.

It’s not the life he expected, but it’s not a bad one.

\-----

The Soldier cracks his eyes open the next evening, waking from a dream of...fresh warm bread and lit candles on a table, wood covered in a white cloth with an intricate pattern. He turns his head from side to side to check their surroundings before letting his eyes settle on Steve, up before him just early enough to watch him wake.

Steve blinks slowly, then his eyes scrunch shut as he yawns wide. He reminds Bucky of a cat, claws splayed out and fangs bared wide and sharp, light pink tongue curling slightly at the start of the yawn.

“Morning,” Steve mumbles, rubbing at an eye before stretching out his whole body.

 _Cat_ , Bucky thinks again, sitting up.

“What are we doing tonight?” Steve asks, sitting up as Bucky stands.

“I want to tear Hydra apart,” Bucky answers, slow and careful with every word. ‘Want’ is still new, disobeying is even newer, but they feel right, true.

Steve looks up at him. “Where do we start?”

Bucky watches him back. “You don’t seem angry.”

Steve blinks.

The Soldier watches him closely. “I read that you died fighting them.”

“Oh,” Steve says, lowering his eyes to look straight ahead. He pushes himself to his feet. “I am angry at Hydra.”

‘ _But not for that_ ’, Bucky hears in the silence, sees it in the aggressive grace of Steve’s body language. _He’s angry for me_ , he realizes, _For Bucky_ , and it’s a strange thing to realize. He’s not sure he can process the idea, so he lets it go.

“Will we be able to hunt them?” Steve asks, pulling Bucky out of his thoughts, “Ross is probably still looking for us. Fury might be too.”

“It will be difficult, but not impossible,” Bucky answers, “It would be more difficult if we were human.”

Steve hums in agreement. “We don’t need to get any weapons, do we?”

“It would be wiser to have them. They’ll have measures against us,” Bucky replies, the implications in the silence.

Steve hums another agreement. That will be his New Years Resolution: Burn Hydra to the ground and make Bucky smile.

\-----

Bucky tries to go out on his own to get weapons, but Steve argues that he can watch Bucky’s back from a distance and keep a lookout if they feed. They are being hunted, after all.

So Steve follows Bucky into the seedier underground parts of the city that Bucky seems to know too well, at a distance, keeping his eyes and ears and other senses alert. Even though he can feel the shadows clinging to his skin, his self. He still doesn’t know what that means, if it will lead to anything, but he’s aware of it.

\-----

“Have we got a hit yet?” Ross asks, pushing into the room.

“No, sir,” a young man replies, turning from his screen to nervously glance back at the General over his shoulder, “The approval just came in an hour ago.”

“This is taking too damn long,” Ross grumbles, coming to a stop in the center of the room in the middle of the walkway, hands crossed at his lower back and eyes on the large screens that make up most of the front wall up ahead, tracking the various information, the facial scans. The light from the screens casts everything in the dark room in a garish, haunting white glow. The movements of agent’s bodies shifting in and out like the writhing foam at the top of dark seas. “How hard can it be to find Captain America?”

 _From our reports though, he’s traveling with a ghost, **The** Ghost_, the young man doesn’t say.

“We just got approval from Berlin to run facial recognition software through their city security surveillance,” a young woman reports from across the walkway, stationed at her own computer, half of her face slashed with the garish white.

“Then do it,” Ross orders.

“Yes, sir,” she answers, turning back to her screen. Another window opens on a huge screen at the head of the room and the sound of her fingers clacking on keys joins the rest of the agent's.

 _I won’t let Fury find them first_ , Ross thinks, fingers curling behind his back.

\-----

“Ross just activated tracking in Berlin,” Natasha reports, dimming her phone screen and slipping it back into her jacket pocket, “We ready to move?”

“Yup,” Clint replies, teeth flashing dull white in the dark.

She leads the way up the quinjet ramp, Clint following behind like an obedient hound.

\-----

Steve spreads his fingers out on the floor in the ray of sunlight coming through the half broken window, watching it closely as he starts to feel the burn. He can see his skin breaking down, the cracks starting, lacing out like incandescent streaks of lava. His skin starts to turn red, blister. The pain makes slow progress up and up, spreads slowly past his wrist to his forearm, higher still, branches stretching their tips to his elbow beneath his rolled up sleeve.

Bucky slips back into the room, going over what he knows. There was a base outside of Berlin, a weapons base near Bulgaria, a factory in Hungary. With the weapons they have, they should be able to-

His thoughts still as he smells burning flesh and he darts his eyes around, all plans falling away when he finds Steve-

And then he’s at Steve’s side, yanking his hand out of the sunlight, watching it slowly start to heal, blisters gradually fading. He narrows his eyes a little at the time it’s taking. They need to eat more. Why was-

He thinks of Steve on that cross, smiling _serenely_.

“What were you doing?” he demands more than asks, more aggressive than he intends. Steve blinks a little sluggishly at him like he’s in a daze.

 _Tired_ , Bucky understands then. He has been pushing their daylight exposure and trying to stretch not-enough blood between them. More feeding then, more rest. They can’t take down their opponents as well, otherwise.

“I don’t know,” Steve replies quietly, “Just wondering.”

_‘Wondering’?_

Bucky raises an eyebrow and Steve’s eyes slant away. Bucky _wants_ to ask, so he lets himself.

“Why were you smiling on that cross when I came for you?”

Steve blinks again, a little more alert this time, but still notably tired, even without more human signs of it: like paling skin and dark bags under his eyes.

“I was...content, I guess,” Steve eventually answers. Bucky’s jaw locks. Steve glances up in thought. “You were alive, that’s all I really wanted, and I was dying. But you _came_ for me,” he adds more emotively, eyes softening as they shift to him.

Bucky’s fingers curl in...frustration. “Do you want to die?”

“Yes,” Steve answers without hesitation, “And no. You’re a big part of the reason why I’m still here.” He looks apologetic. “If you hadn’t shown up, I would have died at Ross’s hands.”

Bucky doesn’t know how to feel about that, what to say. To be someone’s reason for living instead of their reason for dying.

He blinks again, lets go of Steve’s hand when he realizes he’s still holding it. Steve just watches him, and Bucky - the Soldier - has to look away, can’t, and doesn’t _want_ to take the look in his eyes. He doesn’t know what to do with it.

\-----

They move at dusk, just two strangers who happen to be going the same way, taking the same train. Steve keeps Bucky in his sights, maybe a little more than Bucky keeps Steve in his.

They get off at their stop over an hour later, one after the other, and file out into the waiting dark. Bucky turns down a street and Steve eventually follows, pausing at the mouth of it when he doesn’t see Bucky. He braces himself, slowly unfurling his claws in his pockets, and then a familiar sour-sweet smell hits his nose-

His vision spots with black and he stumbles, remembering-

 _Poison_.

 _It’s stronger than last time_.

He staggers, the sound of feet pounding the ground reaching his ears just before hands grab him from all sides, tac gear filling his spotty vision. Five sets of restraints bound his wrists and forearms and he falls forward into the darkness of a pitch black body bag when he’s pushed, like a tree coming down in winter, chest twinging at the impending, confined space before everything goes dark.

\-----

Steve starts to wake somewhere along the way and they drag him kicking and snarling and blind down what feels like countless halls, movements sluggish and body still mostly numb, trapped in the body bag like oversized luggage. He hears metal creak sharply and then hands shove him beyond the barrier of the bag. He goes weightless for all of a few seconds before he hits cement, that metallic _screech_ sounding again as he struggles against his bindings. It takes him more than a few tries but he finally rips them apart, tearing through the bag- And jerks to a stop on his knees, blinking in persistent darkness.

There’s no light anywhere, nothing to see by. It’s complete pitch no matter how his eyes adjust.

He doesn’t need to breathe, he knows he doesn’t, but he starts hyperventilating, hands out in front of him while he stumbles to his feet and takes equally stumbling steps forward, trying to feel for-

His hands hit metal and he feels around, fingers soon closing on a long, rough handle that smells of metal and rust and he _pulls_ -

Nothing.

Pushes. Turns.

Nothing.

They’ve locked him in.

His breathing picks up.

They’ve taken Bucky away and LOCKED HIM IN.

All he can hear is his rapid breathing, no heartbeat as a base track-

 _THEY’VE LOCKED HIM ALONE AGAIN IN THE DARK_.

Steve _screams_.

\--

The agents all jerk to a halt, heads whipping around to the iron door. There’s rapid, erratic pounding and muffled screaming against it, beyond it, vaguely intelligible variations on “ _Let me out_ ” and “ _Bucky_ ” and “ _Dark_ ”. They all look to each other. Agent Carson snorts and Agent Parnel narrows his eyes a little.

“Ross’ _vampire_ is afraid of the _dark_ ,” Carson snickers.

A few chuckle while others eye the door uneasily. The rest focus solely on their computer screens, typing away and away. Parnel looks back to the vault.

“Is that report ready yet?” Carson asks, unbothered.

“Soon,” one of the agents at the computers replies, “I’ve sent General Ross an update on the capture and one to North America’s Hydra Head.”

Carson smirks. “Hail Hydra.”

“ _Hail Hydra_ ,” the whole room echoes.

\--

Steve screams and pounds again and again, throws his whole body against the door but it’s reinforced, doesn’t budge. He screams again-

‘ _Would you like me to release you?_ ’

The scream cuts off midway and he listens intently, beneath his ragged breathing and huffing like a chugging train engine, listens intently in the surrounding silence. _It’s too much_ -

‘ _I won’t repeat myself this time_ ,’ the voice states, coming from all over.

Wait. Steve knows this voice-

“ _It’s you_ ,” he whispers.

‘ _You’re in a bind_ ,’ the voice observes, still smooth as velvet and oceans deep, ‘ _I can see the cracks and fractures that make up your soul, worse than the other one. He’s managed to keep his sanity._ ’

“ _Bucky?_ ” Steve asks desperately, “ _You can see him?_ ”

An affirmative hum, like a low _purr_.

“Am I imagining you?” Steve asks.

‘ _Were you last time?_ ’ the voice counters.

They don’t have _time_ for this.

A low, deep chuckle, then, ‘ _You want to save him?_ ’

 _Yes_ , Steve thinks immediately, but asks, ‘ _Why are you helping?_ ’ feeling harried. _The price, the price, what’s the price?_

‘ _You manage to hold my attention for more than a fleeting moment. There is little I do not know.’_

_‘The price?’_

_‘Do you care?’_

_‘Only if it involves Bucky_.’

An almost lazy, considering hum, like a giant cat purring. ‘ _If I summon you, come.’_

 _‘Once_ ,’ Steve adds.

A low laugh. ‘ _That will suffice_.’

‘ _Then yes_ ,’ Steve answers immediately.

There’s a surge through him then, and a feeling like something unlocking deep within his brain, within _him_. A faint red glow appears against the door that quickly turns hot white-

\-- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n1WhauiDp_0

A few agents pause and turn to look, the ones that aren’t staring at the door already.

It’s gone silent.

Carson steps towards the vault despite the couple hissed protests of caution and raises his fist to pound the side of it against the heavy door.

“You alive in there?!” he calls, snorting again, “ _Oh wait, I forgot_.”

An agent or two laugh quietly, a couple more, nervously, petering off when there’s just more silence. Carson steps back, eyeing the door thoughtfully.

Then there’s a low sound. Parnel squints at the door, trying to place it. It gradually gets louder. It’s like a cat purr but...not.

“ _A growl?_ ” he whispers to himself.

Something _dents_ the metal in the shape of a fist with a loud _CLANG_ and then nails pierce through it with a horrible _shriek_ as they all whip around, yanking their guns out of their holsters, more nails joining the first and tear a streak through the metal like _paper_. Parnel catches a flash of burning white light through the pitch black gap and then there’s the sound of more violent, metallic shrieking and something glinting like blades in the creeping darkness rolling out of the metal gashes like curling smoke-

Then Carson’s painting the nearest wall red, eyes still wide as the upper half of his body falls separate from the rest, mouth frozen open in shock. It’s silent for a second and then someone shouts. Numbly, Parnel knows a bullet never gets shot off in the time it takes any of them to try and fire.

The room is painted red, multiple bodies at a time, screams echoing and dying in his eardrums as they rebound off the red surfaces-

And then his arm goes flying and his vision tilts over on its axis so fast he doesn’t even feel it and he’s hitting the ground in a pool of his own blood, wide eyes staring at his own intestines, painting the room red with all the rest.

There’s _snarls_ and _screams_ that sound like the dying in the creature’s throat, and Parnel’s last thought is that whatever came out of the vault, it wasn’t Captain America.

\--

Gunfire goes off down the hallway. He can hear screams and shouts and something inhuman, rabid, animal. Its furious shrieks send a shiver up even the Soldier’s spine, even poisoned and immobile as he is. He tries to jerk his head up a little when the screaming and gunfire get louder, closer, jerks his wrists uselessly against the Chair’s restraints. It goes silent beyond the door straight ahead and his eyes dart sharply up to it.

Then drop down to the door handle when it creaks as it slowly turns.

The door slowly lilts open, creaking ominously on its rusted hinges and the Soldier inhales slow, can smell death and feces and piss and _blood blood so much blood_ , but- The doorway is pitch black. There’s nothing, not even the hallway he was dragged through earlier to end up in this damn room.

Then there’s two bright points in the darkness and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. Then the darkness _...floods_ into the room, stopping just inches away from his face with those two bright points of white, solid black...claws resting on his forearms? He catches a glimpse of them in his periphery, but can’t feel their weight, just a seeping... _hotcold_ through the layers of his sleeves.

The black...thing leans in close, cocks its humanoid shaped head to the side and the Soldier stares, eyes sweeping over the pitch of it. There’s nothing distinctive about it, no seams or folds or shapes save for having a humanoid shape. It’s just solid black, dark enough that it nearly sucks the surrounding light from the room. His gaze catches on the two points of white like eyes-

No, they’re not wholly white. They’re smoky, almost, bleeding gray out across the black, into the sterile, pale, sickly green of the room. The dark thing leans closer still before disappearing down past his periphery, _sniffing_ at his neck.

Wait. That scent. There’s something-

“S-... _Steve?_ ” he manages, tongue still a weight in his mouth.

The black bleeds back out of the room to leave the dark human shape, _clinging_ to it before that too starts to bleed away, color and other shapes revealed out of the receding darkness to leave Steve behind, still radiating that frozen-burning sensation, smelling almost like ozone above his natural scent, the smell hovering like clouds over his earth.

Steve’s nose drags up the side of Bucky’s neck as he slowly inhales, up the side of his cheek, lips dragging against the Soldier’s hairline at his temple.

“Steve,” he tries again, more clearly now, can rotate his wrists in their restraints. The poison’s finally starting to wear off.

“I killed them all Buck,” Steve nearly whispers against his temple, “I found you. They can’t have you. I won’t let them have you.”

Bucky’s quiet for a minute. Then, “Can you get me out of this?” He doesn’t want to be trapped in the damn _Chair_ a second longer.

Steve shifts back and the darkness is there again, covering his hands up to his forearms solid black, eyes glowing that smokey gray-white again. He _snikts_ his claws through the metal restraints like they’re nothing, like they’re _less_ than nothing.

Bucky forces himself forward and up out of the Damn Chair, Steve moving back just enough to let him stumble to standing. The Soldier and Bucky both let out a breath once he’s on his feet, shaky as it is. Steve seems to sway then, like he’s shifting with waves, just enough to catch Bucky’s attention.

“I’m hungry Buck,” he says softly.

Bucky glances over Steve’s shoulder. “You killed all of them?”

Steve bobs his head like an obedient hellhound, eyes still glowing the haunting, smoking white.

Bucky looks back at him. “Let’s eat.”

\--

It’s not fresh when they get to it, but it’s close enough. Bucky drops down to the first body he finds and sinks his teeth in, but it surprises him when he sees Steve do the same without pause in his periphery.

He doesn’t say anything. Now isn’t the time.

He drains what he can of one body, then another, and another. He goes through ten before he starts to feel it, body starting to warm and poison getting overridden. At his twentieth, he looks up to find Steve and stills.

He’s covered in red, almost as much as he was in darkness earlier, licking at a puddle of blood on the floor from a dead man with his palms in it while the shadows... _cling_ to his every move where he’s half submerged in them.

Bucky and the Soldier stare, watching this... _this_ Steve. He’s not unfamiliar. He’s seen bits and slips of this Steve since they started traveling together, but never so... _openly_. The masks are gone, down, and Steve is exposed.

He’s intoxicating, or maybe that’s the semi-fresh, warm blood talking. The Soldier’s not immune to the effects, but he can keep a hold on them better than Steve, like now.

Steve lets out a low groan almost on cue, voice tinged with something animal, double toned and smoothly brutal. The glow in his eyes goes brighter and takes on a blue tinge with his arousal like it has the last few times he’s seen Steve feed on fresh human blood. He wonders not for the first time if Steve’s aware of it.

Steve sits up, licking at the impossible mess that covers his lips and the bottom half of his face, then brings a hand up and smears it all over his skin again when he’s gotten what he can reach, looking up at Bucky, on his knees half in the shadows in puddles of cooling blood. He’s strangely beautiful in a wild way, an animal way, a _dangerous_ way, the hints of it Bucky’s seen when he’s fed with Steve on full display.

He ignores the hardness in his jeans, clouding his mind and senses, or maybe he listens to it, and crawls over, over dead bodies and through red puddles. When he reaches Steve, the Soldier, Bucky, takes Steve’s face between his hands and leans in close to lick a stripe up the center of his lips. Steve gives a breathy groan, hands finding his sides, and the Soldier does it again, swallowing the taste of  _blood_ and _Steve_ before just breathing against Steve’s mouth. Steve’s fingers curl tighter in his hoodie, shredding holes into it like it’s wet paper.

Bucky tilts his head and slowly, finally brings their mouths together, slipping his tongue past Steve’s parted lips to drag it against his sharp teeth, feeds on Steve’s loud groan as much as the blood leaking from the brief cut on his own tongue before fucking Steve’s mouth with it, slow and firm and wet. He feels Steve shift closer through the growing haze, climb up to straddle his lap, knees on either side of his own, and grind his hips against his stomach. The Soldier grinds back, groaning a low, feral growl against Steve’s own, hands falling down to clutch at his hips, around to his ass, gripping it firmly and jerking Steve closer, pressing them solidly front to front. Steve grinds harder against him and Bucky rolls his hips up between his thighs, _moaning_.

He keeps fucking his tongue deep into Steve’s mouth, Steve’s sliding hot and wet against it, feels Steve shift again and get his hands between them. He sucks in a breath when cold air hits his cock, then again when it rubs firmly against Steve’s, Steve’s arms coming up to wrap tightly around his back while they move, grinding together like one being, like they’re made of the same thing, like they _are_ the same thing-

He comes with a low snarl, practically devouring Steve’s mouth as Steve growls into his own. Nothing comes out of their cocks, but their bodies tighten with their grips and the orgasm is _there_ , long and vibrant and _blinding_ and so, so _good_.

They don’t need breath so he doesn’t stop kissing Steve, lets Steve fuck _his_ mouth with his tongue while he sucks on it, sucking at the blood when Steve cuts it on his eight teeth, top and underside. Steve’s arms shift and then fingers drag through his hair, pull, tug and twist and he drops forward, pressing Steve’s back into a pool of blood and tearing his clothes apart, _off_. Steve helps, tears at his own and they shed them like coming out of cocoons, pressing into each other skin to skin as they grind their hips again, that sweet, aching hardness back below their stomachs.

Bucky finally drags his mouth from Steve’s and sucks at the smooth porcelain of his cheek, his neck, scrapes four fangs down ivory and then dips his head down past it to drag his tongue through the blood beneath him, lifting his head again to drag it across Steve’s skin, painting it red before licking it clean, nose full of _it_ and _Steve_.

He smells so good, _fuck **he smells so good**_.

He rolls his hips, huffs breaths he doesn’t need against Steve’s skin as Steve arches his own hips up and grinds back, faster, harder, drags claws that sting down either side of Bucky’s spine and digs his teeth into Bucky’s shoulder, making his hips jerk as he gasps. He reaches down with his left hand and drags Steve’s leg up, palm sliding against the blood on Steve’s thigh, grinding into him _harder, faster_ , knees slipping every so often in the cooling blood.

Fuck, _he wants inside he wants **inside**_.

Steve’s glowing eyes find his, lips parted and fangs sharp in his pretty pink mouth and Bucky comes before he can act on the thought, parting his lips wide and sinking his teeth in Steve’s shoulder. He feels more than hears Steve _shout_ somewhere in all the noise and wet sounds, and then he feels Steve’s teeth dig sharp into his shoulder again, body stilling beneath his.

He groans low and pries his teeth out of Steve’s smooth skin, licking at the blood that leaks and then at the red stains he can feel coating his teeth. Steve’s fangs come out of his flesh and then they’re staring at each other, not out of breath or sweating, not exhausted but at the start of sated, or something like it.

“Fuck me next time,” Steve says, voice almost a growl.

“I will,” Bucky answers, leaning down to licking a stray streak of blood from Steve’s cheek.

They get up after, take the cash out of their ruined clothes, grab the Stark Phone, and explore the base long enough to find a shower and something else to wear, then set the whole place on fire and leave, out into the dark of the night, highlighted in embers from the burning base.

The Soldier notices the shadows cling to him a little then, too, following him into the pitch under the stars.

 _Steve’s eyes burned brighter_ , he thinks, looking up at them, then looks to Steve at his side, who looks back, eyes gray again, but no less...alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to remind everyone that Steve is an unreliable narrator (as HELL) and is Fucked Up. Please keep that in mind.


	13. Are we the hunters or are we the prey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLYYYYYYYY. I have a computer. Weeps. Cries. Lays down. OTL I'm posting three chapters right now so keep an eye out.

Clint steps over another crispy charred arm, expression pinched. His boots stick just a little each time he goes to lift them out of all the ruin. Yuck. He peers around with his fingers pinching his nose closed, making a face when he finds Natasha crouched next to one of the bodies. Er, well, half of one.

“Anything interesting? Other than the obvious,” he finishes in a mutter.

She rises smoothly from her crouch, toeing a chunk of metal. “Someone tore through that.” The ‘ _with their hands’_ goes unsaid.

“Well, that’s good news. Means _they_ likely set the fire,” Clint replies. ‘ _And slaughtered everyone else’_ also goes unsaid. “Ross is in over his head.” _And his men will be here soon_ , he thinks.

“We might be too,” Natasha replies, soft and bland. 

Clint straightens a little as he makes and picks his way over to her. “You think Rogers has gone over the edge?”

She doesn’t reply, just gives the area one more scan before she starts climbing up out of the crater. Clint follows behind.

“We gonna keep piggybacking Ross’s lines?” he asks next.

“While keeping our own ears open,” she answers, “We’re getting closer.”

He watches the light fracture on the black shine of her suit every time her shoulders shift, red hair glinting in the sunlight against her back.

The destroyed base and charred pieces of remains do kind of speak for themselves. This is the closest they’ve been since they found out from Stark that Rogers left with his assassin buddy.

 _The Winter Soldier_ , Clint ponders, not for the first time. A ghost story. _The_ ghost story, and supposedly one hell of a sniper. Clint’s looking forward to meeting him.

He hops over the last piece of base rubble and scans the area. “ _Sure_ we can’t just have Stark run a more comprehensive sweep? I know he won’t track the phone he gave Rogers but he can at _least_ do that.” S.H.I.E.L.D. tech might be top of the line, Ross’s close, but he can admit Stark’s is better than both.

“Are you whining?” she teases, the curl of her lips audible in her voice.

“I’m not _whining_ ,” Clint mutters back, “My knees are just gettin’ old on me.”

Natasha doesn’t quite snort at that, but it’s a close thing. “Stretch in the jet.”

“Oh I’m gonna,” he replies as he follows her up the ramp into it, steps clanging softly on the metal where her’s don’t. He takes one last look at the demolished base behind them and lets out a low whistle before heading inside and hitting the button to close the ramp. “Someone made _someone_ mad,” he mumbles.

\-----

Steve holds out a few strands of his bangs, eyeing them in the mirror. “My hair’s been growing,” he comments. He hasn’t been keeping track of it since he’s been eating blood packets and dogs, but with all the fresh blood lately, his body’s been stimulated by it. “ _Blood is life_ ,” Erskine had told him once. Drinking it is as close to ‘alive’ as him and Bucky get. Their hair grows, their nails grow back faster if they’re cut, they heal faster - an imitation of ‘human’.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, just glances at him out of the corner of his eye before going back to doing whatever he’s been doing on the new laptop for the past hour.

It’s been a whole two nights since the base and Bucky hasn’t touched him since. He won’t refuse Steve brushing their shoulders together or sitting close like Steve was before, but trying to hold his hand had felt awkward enough that Steve stopped, and Bucky still won’t initiate any physical contact outside of feeding. The only time he did was in that base, when he cupped Steve’s face, licked him, kissed him-

In other words: it feels like they’re back to square one.

It’s frustrating, but Steve’s not bothered.

He feels Other Bucky trying to stare a hole into the side of his head.

‘ _Okay. Maybe I’m a little bothered_ ,’ Steve concedes. 

Other Bucky snorts. ‘ _Finally got what you’ve wanted for decades and then he took it away. Maybe he’s just playing hard to get._ ’

Steve rolls his eyes. ‘ _Fucking me twice isn’t playing hard to get_.’

‘ _That was then, this is now_.’ 

Other Bucky pops in beside Steve and leans against his shoulder, not that Steve can _feel_ it. One Bucky will touch him and Steve can’t feel it, the other won’t touch him when Steve _can_ feel it. He feels the dichotomy acutely.

‘ _Besides, he was blood high wasn’t he? ‘High on life’. Pretty sure we overheard someone say that back in New York_.’

Steve sighs internally.

‘ _You’re itching for him to touch you_ ,’ Other Bucky states, looking over at the subject of their conversation, ‘ _Maybe he will when you don’t expect it_.’

Steve holds in second sigh, looking over at Real Bucky too. ‘ _I’ve loved him for what feels like forever, and now it’s like he’s slipped through my fingers again_.’

‘ _Always beyond reach. Like a cat_ ,’ Other Bucky observes, ‘ _Just as wary of contact. Maybe he didn’t like it when you changed? Or maybe he liked it too much._ ’

Steve raises his hands a bit and looks down at his palms, his nails, can... _feel_ the darkness from the nearby shadows almost like a numb prickle along his skin, through his clothes, easy to ignore but now constantly there like a faint whisper just waiting for him to speak. That’s not quite right either, but he doesn’t think any words exist for the way it feels. Maybe Bucky thinks he’s repulsive and only fucked him because he was blood high? Or because Steve saved him?

He lowers his hands.

Maybe Bucky only did it to pay him back for saving him from that chair he was in. It looked...strange, bare and terrible and attached to machines with wires. He can still remember the straps that held Bucky down, the smell of the sterile room sharp in his nose.

Steve tries to let the initial thought drift and stale and wanders over towards Real Bucky, still keeping a distance. It feels like needles all over his skin. “What are you doing?” he asks, manages to sound casual.

Bucky glances up briefly before looking back to the laptop. “Checking local and international wanted databases.” He closes the laptop after a few moments and puts his fist through it, then stands and heads for the door, leaving it on the floor. “They’ll track us; we need to leave.”

Steve follows him without complaint or a second thought.

\-----

Snow crunches under boot, _crunch-crunch-crunch_. It’s different from bone, lighter, easier, but Steve thinks of it anyway. 

Bucky says there’s another base in Hungary and somewhere near Bulgaria, but he’s wary of getting caught again on the way there since they were careful before and still ended up in the hands of...the government? Hydra? One of the two. Steve’s still not wholly sure who caught them, just that they moved and were dressed like a top secret operation. They’re going anyway, but they spend a lot of the journey on foot whenever possible, through dry and snow covered countryside and long distances between country divider lines, sleeping under the bare branches of trees when they nap at night and watching the stars through the cracks (and Bucky _still_ won’t touch him). 

When they do have to be around people, they skirt the edges more than usual, not even entering city limits unless they need to feed, but even then, Bucky almost always manages to find someone before then and avoid it. People going to and leaving the city, skirting towns and smaller settlements. They stick out in places like those, so they stick to the shadows, snaking claws out to strike from within the dark and compelling their prey after to forget they ever saw a thing.

It’s quieter when it’s just him and Bucky and the stars. Steve wants to ask Bucky things, tell him things, but when he goes to speak, the words disappear into the night air with breaths he doesn’t need. He wants to get to _know_ this Bucky, but he’s not sure Bucky knows himself.

Steve rolls over to look at him sometime pre-dawn, curled up in a cave with Bucky somewhere between Austria and Hungary, trying to push memories down and put them away. Bucky’s been moving a little stiffer than usual and has barely looked at him since they crossed the Austrian border, less than he has been. Steve tries not to think too much about that, too. 

He curls up a little, not comfortable, not uncomfortable. Ground and grass and rock are almost interchangeable at this point, but he slides his hand between his cheek and the dirt and studies Bucky in the clinging shadows and graying starlight. Dawn is approaching, and they’re sleeping through the day today.

Bucky’s stubble and hair have grown some. Not enough to be noticed with human eyes, but Steve can see it. His skin is still white like the snow permeating the land, and his eyes are like the winter clouds that blanket the mornings, heavy and gray and hard. He’s beautiful and otherworldly, maybe even more beautiful because of it. There’s a danger to him he never had before, even during the war, a stillness even his sniper abilities don’t compare to, and Steve finds him utterly breathtaking, alluring, far more than the view from the Eiffel Tower had been. 

But what is he like inside?

Steve will love him anyway, and from what he’s seen, that’s still true, but he wants to _know (he’s desperate to know)_.

“Hey, Buck?”

Bucky angles his face slightly towards him so Steve continues.

“Who are you?”

Bucky turns his head the rest of the way and stares at him a little like he’s grown a second head.

Oh.

“I mean, who are you as you are now?” Steve clarifies, “You’re different from the war, and before it.”

Bucky studies him closely. Steve would blush if he could. The attention feels good after so long. Even just Bucky looking at him.

Bucky eventually answers, “A monster, a hunter, a killer, a weapon.”

Steve watches him back. “Who am I then?”

Bucky stares, looking slightly taken off guard for the briefest moment. His expressions are always so carefully controlled. Steve misses how he looked when he lost that control, wants to see it again.

“You are...to be protected,” Bucky eventually answers.

“Why?” Steve asks after a few moments.

For once, Bucky looks unsure, before he becomes steel again.

“You are important,” he answers.

“To who?”

“To-” Bucky pauses. Steve thinks he sees him swallow, but he could just be seeing things. Not like it would be the first time. “Everyone,” Bucky finishes.

Steve takes a slow breath before saying softly, “I wish you’d said you.”

Bucky watches him for an unreadable moment before turning his face away again where Steve can’t see, always beyond his reach.

Steve’s fingers twitch in the space between them.

\--

‘ _Steve_.’

‘ _Steve_.’

 _‘Steee-eeve_.’

“Hm?” Steve groans quietly, somewhere muddled and away from ‘awake’. He rolls over and slowly pushes himself up to sitting, rubbing at his eyes with a hand. “What is it Buck?”

‘ _You’re talking to yourself_ ,’ he thinks he hears, but it’s muffled like there’s cotton in his ears, or he’s got two bad ears instead of none.

“What?” He lowers his hand and yawns wide with a long stretch, lowering his arms and opening his eyes to find Bucky just finishing lowering into a crouch in front of him, staring at him. Steve stares back. “What?” he repeats when Bucky remains silent.

Bucky reaches a hand forward and Steve stays still and quiet, holding his breath- When Bucky’s palm brushes up under his bangs to press to his forehead, Steve’s eyelids flutter closed.

‘ _Feels good doesn’t it_.’

“Mmhmm,” Steve doesn’t realize he quietly hums back. Bucky’s hand pulls away and Steve holds back a pitiful sound, opening his eyes slowly like he’s drugged - or poisoned, it would be now.

“You are talking to yourself,” Bucky says. Steve’s insides freeze over and he stills. “Are you poisoned?” Bucky asks, but sounds doubtful. He leans closer and Steve’s still mind _blanks_.

‘ _No_.’

“No,” he hears himself say.

‘ _I just love you_.’

Steve presses his lips firmly together and Other Bucky appears over Real Bucky’s shoulder, rolling his eyes. “I’m just tired,” Steve says instead, ignoring him.

Bucky watches him closely for a minute, or maybe it’s the Soldier. There’s nuances between them, but Steve loves all of him so he doesn’t actively keep track, but his instincts know them like the back of his hand now.

Bucky rises to his feet, pulling Steve out of his thoughts. “We’ll travel half the night and then rest,” he decides, heading out of the cave they’ve camped out in and beginning a new snow trekked path through the forest.

Steve wants to protest, but that would raise questions, so he gets up and follows instead.

\-----

“Nat. They’ve gone to ground.”

She hums vaguely, eyes on the radar and sensors. Clint stares out the window at the clouds, contemplates making the jet barrel roll through them just for the fun of it.

“I mean it’s been a week. We missed New Years at Stark’s, and speaking of-” he pauses, shifting around in his seat to dig his phone out of his back pocket, tapping at the screen a few times before holding it out to her. She glances over. “‘ _No sign yet? Sad face, poop emoji, poop emoji, poop emoji_ ’,” he recites the text without looking before putting his phone back away. “Pretty sure he tried sending something to you too.”

“I set my phone to delete anything not pertaining to an emergency,” she replies almost blandly.

Clint sighs. “They’ve gone to ground. Like really gone to ground. Even Ross has been pissier than usual. I don’t envy his subordinates.”

She hums again, disinterested.

“We know they have to feed,” Clint continues, leaning back in his pilot seat and beginning to tick things off on his fingers, “There haven’t been any family pet deaths, human deaths, or blood bank robberies since Rome. Maybe they’re feeding off of strays and the homeless? But Rogers wouldn’t do that. Or they’re...you already know,” he finishes, looking over at her twitching lips.

“Keep going,” she teases, lips curling up into an amused smile.

“They found a way to feed without leaving evidence or alerting anyone…?” he guesses.

“Good boy.” She smiles further when Clint throws her a look.

“Okay...so they’re hiding bodies? Ooor…?” he trails off.

“What do you know about vampires, Clint?” she asks.

He looks up at the jet roof in thought, ticking things off on his fingers again. “They don’t like sunlight, which is mostly accurate, they’re allergic to garlic, but not really, crosses are a hoax, blood is vital, etcetera etcetera.”

She gives a nod. “And…?”

“Aaand they have sharp teeth? Like really sharp puppy-teeth.”

She slants him a look at that and he shrugs before conceding.

“Okay, okay. Ummm...they can climb walls and ceilings, they _do_ cast reflections, according to Rogers’ file, they can compel-” Clint practically jerks to a stop; she can hear it. “ _No_ ,” he says, head whipping around, “ _Really? That_ wasn’t in Rogers’ file.”

“I’m sure there’s a lot that’s not in his file,” Natasha replies calmly, “According to the S.S.R. records, he was tested the day of his transformation and then reported any changes thereafter to a Colonel Phillips. Do you want to bet he told the whole truth?”

“ _Nnn_ …” Clint trails off uncertainly, “He’s _Captain America_ ,” he says, like that should be proof enough, “But...I’m not sure even he would...Yeah, okay, I see your point, even with half my brain still yelling ‘ _But he’s Captain America!_ ’ He’s only human. Well. Sort of.” He settles back into his chair. “Sooo he’s hiding abilities we don’t know about.”

“Probably him and Barnes both,” Natasha confirms.

“Well that’s both...exciting and unsettling,” Clint settles on.

“And dangerous,” Natasha adds lower, “We could find them and they could tell us to do anything.”

Clint slumps a bit in his seat, the cabin quiet for a minute. “At least we’re Rogers’ colleagues,” he says eventually, “Ross’s men won’t be so lucky. Not that they were the last time, if that was them.”

“No,” Natasha agrees, signalling for Clint to take over the controls so she can put the listening device into her ear, focusing on the sound of Ross’s voice and the desperate obedience of his underlings.

 _Oh, great_ , she thinks, _He’s yelling again_.

But Clint does have a point, one that she’s been considering for a little while now. If that wasn’t Ross’s men at the base, then who were they? The _Hydra_ the Soldier mentioned in Stark’s surveillance?

 _Most likely_ , she thinks grimly. They were supposed to be gone, but things that should be ash and dust have a habit of coming back.

She focuses back on the device in her ear, frowning when she hears Ross mention a familiar name.


	14. My memory

Bucky picks his way through the forest, dodging hidden bear traps when he spots them and listening for Steve’s steps to stay in line with his own. He knows they will, but part of him won’t let him _not_ pay close attention to Steve, can feel his presence like sunlight no matter where they go.

He’s been wanting to touch Steve for _days_.

He won’t allow it.

It felt... _good_ to touch him in the base, to feed with him. It felt like they fit somewhere in the world, the two of them, together. And finally _touching_ him beyond feeding, skin to skin, lips to tongue, it-

Bucky shuts down that train of thought, focusing solely back on the path they’re making through the forest.

It’s been...difficult keeping to himself. He allows touch when they feed, that small luxury, but keeps his distance otherwise. It feels almost like he’s clawing his other arm off, or sawing himself in half, all razor blades and pin needles and a growing, aching pressure that demands Steve _stay_ , but Steve is...Even as a rabid creature covered in darkness, he’s too...valuable? Important? Important…

Bucky focuses on the path again.

There’s something inside him insisting Steve is too good for that, Steve is too good for him, Steve is just...too _good_ , too good for a tarnished animal that’s been turned into a weapon and knows little beyond how to kill. He still can’t even remember much about being ‘Bucky’. He doesn’t think he ever will. But if the something inside of him insisting is what’s left of _that_ man, then what ground does _he_ have to stand on to say he’s good enough?

His fingers curl a little and he grits his teeth.

But on the other hand: fuck Bucky and his self righteous insistence. He’s not here.

If only it were that simple.

A twig snaps and he stills as his head snaps up, eyes focusing on the distance, glancing between the trees. He spots them then: wolves, several, a pack, watching them just as warily.

“They look desperate for food,” Steve says quietly, taking a couple slow steps closer until their shoulders brush together, “It’s Winter.”

“They know we’re not food,” Bucky replies back, just as quiet, “But we’re moving and they’re thinking about it anyway.”

The stare down with the wolves lasts another two minutes before a few take a slow step forward. Bucky bares his teeth and snarls, low and warning and they stop, then scatter away like birds. He watches them retreat for a minute to make sure before he turns his head forward and starts walking again, feels and hears Steve following close behind, like his own personal shadow, or the light that casts _him_ as the shadow. That is more fitting.

( _Bucky wants to touch him and burn_ ).

\-----

They finally cross the border out of Austria and Bucky can breathe easier. He doesn’t know what about that country bothered him, just that from the first moment he saw the sign saying they were nearing it, something about it set his teeth on edge. Not enough to throw him off mission, but a subtle knocking against his ribs of _not right_.

Once he and Steve make it into Hungary, the Soldier leads them to the base. It’s sequestered in a forest with half of it underground, so they don’t have to worry about civilians or local security cameras, but they do have to worry about the anti-vampire measures Hydra has installed. At least, the Soldier is assuming they took the precautions at every base. He’s only seen them at three other bases during the times he can fractally remember being in the hands of the Russians, but the pain he remembers from the initial tests are still there, he can feel them throughout his body, even if the memories themselves are vague and unclear, or just not there at all. There’s still a lot missing he’s not hoping to get back.

He and Steve scope out the base for a day and then rest for a night, try to sleep, so they can attack at dawn. If there’s UV countermeasures, it will lower their exposure capability even farther, but at least Hydra will be thrown off guard by them attacking during the day. The element of surprise will be theirs.

“There may be UV search and overhead lights, light mounts on their guns, UV flash grenades, silver bullets and buckshot, silver buckshot grenades. Be prepared,” he warns Steve that night, “Take any weapons you find and use them when yours run dry.” Since they only have what they could hide on their persons from the last base. Bucky pauses. “Can you control the darkness from before?”

Steve frowns, raising his hands and looking at them. “I can feel it, but I don’t know how it will respond if I try to use it. Last time it just...came out.”

“Then test it tomorrow. As a last resort,” Bucky adds. Steve lowers his hands and looks over. Bucky turns his head to look back. “Don’t risk your life unnecessarily.” Steve nods slowly, watching him. Bucky’s jaw locks and he lets himself reach forward and...touch, fingers resting lightly on Steve’s cheek. “You are not allowed to die,” he says, quiet and firm. Steve’s eyes are wide now, leaning into the touch. _I won’t permit it_ , Bucky thinks. The thought of Hydra killing or capturing Steve is...creates a feeling he cannot name, but it burns like untempered iron in his veins. _They cannot have him. I won’t let them have him_.

Steve nods again and Bucky pulls his hand away, Steve leaning forward briefly to follow it before catching himself. Bucky doesn’t miss how the small shadows clinging to Steve seem to almost...dance.

\-----

As soon as the sun crests the horizon, they move out, sprint the distance and blur through the trees and across the clearing before going over the base’s perimeter fence, can feel the hum of electricity coursing through the metal below them when they leap. They dart for the nearest shadows, taking out the perimeter guards as quickly as possible before forcing their way inside.

The sneaking around lasts all of three minutes before they’re spotted and the gunfire starts. Bucky tears through as many as he can with his claws to save his bullets, Steve shooting the rest out of his immediate reach. Simple, clean headshots. The Soldier is proud.

He and Steve make their way down hallway after hallway. When they find the entrance into the underground portion, the Soldier pauses, glancing up to the upper floors. They shouldn’t split up, so they’ll take the top portions first. He looks over to Steve, Steve looking back, waiting for his command, Hydra agents, men and women yelling down the neighbouring hallways-

An explosion goes off before he can say anything, knocking him back and down with a burning white light-

\-----

“ _Do you have him?”_

_“We have him. What about the other one?”_

_“Leave him. We don’t have time. Rendezvous to Charlie-Alpha-_ ”

\-----

His senses come back online one at a time, touch first: something familiar and burning around his ankles, wrists, throat, and mouth. Then smell: burning flesh and rusty pipes, stale water and dirt, leather, and gunpowder, that damn sour-sweet smell of poison, fainter than the last time but there and tangled with everything else all the same. Then taste: blood, too hot in his mouth. He slowly drags his heavy tongue around and tastes it all over. His gums are bleeding, his tongue is bleeding, his teeth are charring, bits of ash sticking to his blood-wet tongue. Then hearing: a slow, steady drip of that stale water he smelt hitting what sounds like cement, the dull thuds of multiple heartbeats beyond the walls, then the steady rhythm of boots on cement and the sharp creak of a handle turning, the following of a metal door opening and then thudding shut, a lock sliding into place. There’s a scrape of metal on cement (a chair?), then the soft thump of dropping body weight (a chair) somewhere near front of him.

Quiet.

_Drip-drip-drip._

Heartbeat: _thuh-dump, thuh-dump, thuh-dump_.

“Not gonna open your eyes?” he hears. His captor, voice a rough kind of smooth with the slightest tangle of an accent nearly completely lost, if you’re a regular human without perfect recall. “I know you’re dead and all, but I _can_ count. I know you’re up by now.”

The Soldier doesn’t move.

“Those bindings feel familiar?” A _crunch_ , the sound of liquid dripping. Chewing, the smell of something freshly sweet.

 _Apple_ , his mind supplies.

“Frankly, I’m surprised those idiots managed to catch you. Told me they did a number on your fuckbuddy.”

They were watching the first base, then, via security cameras or from a safe distance.

He refrains from reacting.

He was looking at Steve when the blast went off, but there was so much white, he couldn’t see the damage to him, other than the blue-gray of Steve’s eyes flaring white in the explosion.

A swallow. Another _crunching_ bite.

“They left him there, if you’re wondering. No rescue in store for you.”

The Soldier finally opens his eyes, taking in the dingy old room, his captor, sitting backwards on a chair six feet in front of him, legs either side of it and forearm and elbow braced on top of the back, apple an obscene red under the harsh, overhead lights - brighter than blood.

“Name’s Rumlow,” the man says before taking another bite, staring at him, juice glistening under the bright lights, and black hair and black uniform made all the darker for it. For a moment, the Soldier thinks of Steve, but Steve is graceful in his pitch black form, even more so than usual, even more than the Widows had been-

Widows?

“In case you don’t remember.” His captor smirks. “I’m here to clean up yours and these idiot’s messes.”

 _Great_ , the Soldier thinks, briefly surprised by the unexpected sarcasm rebounding in his own head. Remnants of Bucky, maybe, or maybe he’s just developed cynicism and a distaste for all things Hydra.

Rumlow keeps smirking around another bite while the UV restraints continue to burn the Soldier down to calcium and bone.

\--

His captor leaves him alone after a while. They all leave him alone. The Soldier can still smell his burned flesh in the air even though Rumlow turned off the UV in the restraints before he left. No point in burning completely through his limbs, he’ll just get free. They didn’t take them off though, even when he started gagging on his own blood.

Hydra. As mannerless as ever.

Which just leaves him alone with his thoughts and slightly twitching claws, head hanging forward, trying to ignore the pain.

Rumlow said they left Steve at the base, which implies they’ve taken him to a different one, and there’s a chance that Steve’s alive, but not unharmed, from the sounds of it. He never told Steve where the base near Bulgaria was, if that’s even where he is now, so Steve can’t come for him even if Hydra hasn’t captured him too. Bucky’s on his own. Not unfamiliar, but a problem. He doesn’t want to go back to the _Damn Chair_.

Because there is one here, he knows there is, even without knowing.

He tries to pull his wrists apart even though the restraints have never broken, and they don’t now. The only thing it does is increase the pain all throughout his arms. He tries to ignore it.

Fuck. What if they wipe him again? What if they have _Steve?_

 _He tries to ignore it_. None of that will help him now.

He forces his mind clear, staring down at the seam where dingy wall meets dingy floor, and tries to think, slowly flexing his claws.

Steve could break the Chair’s restraints in his dark form like they were nothing. If Bucky could figure out how to do that darkness thing, too...then maybe-

He closes his eyes, focusing on his hands, his arms, tries to imagine them like Steve’s were: covered in pitch black, feeling _burningfreezing_ , nearly weightless...If he could just-

There’s a faint... _tingle_ down his arms to his hands, the tips of his fingers, and then it fades out and he grits his teeth, the ones in front closest to the UV plating cracking and chipping under the stress as they try to repair themselves.

‘ _Very close. I am impressed_.’

His eyes snap open as he stills.

The voice is smooth and impossibly deep, and very definitely _not his_.

‘ _You think I am a voice in your head_.’ A low, deep chuckle. ‘ _You’re not wrong, I **am** a voice in your head, but not that kind. You have not lost your sanity like the other, and I can assure you, I am very real._ ’

‘ _The other_ ’? he thinks. And what kind of accent is that? It _curls_.

Bucky remains silent.

‘ _Seems Steve is still putting himself together. Quite literally,'_ the voice continues casually, _'You’re curious, aren’t you?_ ’

He closes his eyes, keeping his mind blank.

‘ _He’s lost some of his arm and leg, and it appears his abdomen was shredded by shrapnel. He’s going to be a minute_.’

 _Steve_ , Bucky very purposefully does _not_ think, trying to ignore the shudder down his spine from the _voice_ in his _head_. He didn’t quite think he’d lost his mind, somehow, but maybe he did.

It’s blessedly quiet for a time, and then, ‘ _Would you like out of those bindings?_ ’ the voice asks, ‘ _I asked Steve the same question. I’m curious as to what **you** will become if you agree_.’

Silence.

‘ _No? Suit yourself_.’

Silence.

Silence.

_Silence-_

The metal door creaks open and Bucky opens his eyes with it, slanting them towards the door. Rumlow walks in, stopping ten feet away and crossing his arms. For all intents and purposes, he looks relaxed, but the Soldier can see the tension in the lines that make up _him_.

“Ready for the chair, _Soldier?_ ” Rumlow asks - the last in Russian - with a slow, sharp, one-sided smirk.

Bucky holds in a shudder, keeping his mind blank.

They drag him out of the chair they bound him to and out of the room, down a hall, then another, restraints keeping his arms and legs pinned together. He thinks briefly about head butting the nearest agent and flopping out of their hold like a fish, but discards it since he can’t run, and hopping won’t get him far, even with his speed.

Still, the closer they get to the Chair, the more its specific, metallic-electric scent mingles with the fear and curiosity he can smell coming off the agents.

It fills his chest with a bitter sort of longing and makes him want to gag.

He wants to tear them all and this whole damn place _apart_.

He tries focusing on his hands again, but all they do is shake and his mind feels more and more blankly clouded over the closer that metallic-electric smell gets.

And then they’re stopping in front of a heavy, reinforced steel door and one of the agents is pulling it open, and there it is, right in front of him.

They drag him inside.

He’s shoved into the Chair. They barely uncuff him long enough to get his ankles and wrists restrained in the Chair’s manacles, two at a time, and he doesn’t have the mind enough to try and struggle, docile as a child as achingly familiar numbness slowly spreads throughout and consumes his body, his still heart. One of the agents glances at his face before looking to Rumlow.

“Mouthguard?”

“No point,” Rumlow replies, standing off to the side, a hand casually braced on his hip, “He’ll just grow his tongue back.”

The agents go back to setting up the Chair, a low, electrical hum building beneath the Soldier while he stares blankly up at the ceiling.

 _I’ll lose Steve_ , he thinks distantly, the thought drifting across his mind as the panic starts to build in his chest through the blank clouds, fingers slowly curling into familiar, well worn grooves in the arm rests. How many times has he been in this Chair? This one in particular? All of them? This one is old, even though the room smells sterile and new.

He can’t remember.

The hum builds-

 _I’ll lose everything_.

He hears the head pieces behind him start to rotate down and swing into place, closing in around the sides of his head and taking his left eyesight with it.

“Starting in-”

The panic spikes and peaks and breaks as his eyes widen, fingers clenching tightly into the grooves-

 _YES_ , he screams in his mind, trying to reach for that voice from earlier, for _anything, **anyone** ( **Please answer me this time** )_, _HELP ME_.

‘ _So be it_.’ Something that sounds like a _smile_ in it-

Something _surges_ in him just as the electricity does and the muzzle on the lower half of his face muffles his scream, sight going white-

\-----

A slow smile, sharp teeth glinting in firelight.

“ _Fascinating_ …”

\-----

Steve _runs_ , ignoring the pain in his arm, his leg, his gut. The wounds are still healing, but there’s _no time_. _**They took Bucky.**_ He has no idea where they are. It’s been a full day; they could be anywhere. But bucky said there was a base near Bulgaria, and if he’s not there, because _Steve will find it_ , he’ll just have to interrogate every single Hydra agent there until he finds where they took Bucky. It’s not much of a plan, but it’s _something_.

‘ _Go left_.’

He skids to a stop, hissing like a feral cat when it tears part of his stomach open again, and turns left sharply and starts sprinting again. ‘ _You know where Bucky is?_ ’ he demands.

‘ _I do_ ,’ the deep, velvety voice replies, sounding a hint amused.

Steve could kick its owner’s teeth in.

A low chuckle. ‘ _Run at that speed for three hours, then take a sharp right and go straight for another four. And Steve?_ ’

Steve waits while he runs.

‘ _You might want to change_.’

He’s not sure if the voice means his clothes or the darkness, so he pushes it aside to worry about later, sticking to the clinging shadows whenever he can.

\-----

It takes him seven hours to get to the base, as he was told, and another ten minutes sneaking as close to it as possible in broad daylight, darting from winter bare tree to winter bare tree. It’s more time than he cares to give, wants to charge in as soon as he finds the base, but it does give his body a longer chance to heal, both explosion wounds and sun blisters.

Steve focuses his senses, listening.

He can hear hushed, indistinct talking, quiet, muffled bootsteps and heavy machinery beyond the walls. He wishes he could _sense Bucky_ , but nothing happened when he tried earlier.

He stays crouched behind a tree for another minute, eyes closed in thought.

 _Storm the base it is_ , he finally decides, opening his eyes- Other Bucky stares back, right in front of him, and smirks, a slow, small, familiar and mischievous curl of his lips.

‘ _I have a better idea_.’

\--

Rumlow’s head whips around at the sound of gunfire and he heads over and pulls the reinforced door open, barely glancing out. “What’s happening?” he demands of a couple agents running by.

“Fire from two of our own!” one answers quickly, frantic, “They just started firing!”

Rumlow frowns, taking a moment to process. “You two come with me. Asset?” he asks, looking back into the room.

It raises its head.

He tries not to swallow, forcing down his emotions. “Take point. Lead us to the underground cave system.”

It steps forward, the white glow in the room shifting with it.

\--

Steve dashes down hall after hall, checking every door and scent he comes across and ignoring the semi-distant gunfire. He wouldn’t have compelled anyone like that before, but Hydra has a knack for making him do things he’d only normally ever consider. Mostly. But it works, it helps keep the Hydra agents busy and dying, and him free to dart around the base, at least for now.

After another few minutes, he finally, _finally_ catches Bucky’s scent in the maze of hallways and follows it to a room, pushing the door open the rest of the way to find another, skeletal chair like the one he got Bucky out of in the first base. Steve frowns, turning his head to scent the air again and following Bucky’s scent out of the room.

He kills five agents on his way, but Bucky’s scent - mingled with others - leads him further and further down until he’s descending stairs into an actual, giant, underground cave system. He glances around into the encroaching darkness with his night vision, remembering what the voice said. Now seems as good a time to change as any.

He closes his eyes and focuses, and feels something... _ripple_ all over him. When he opens his eyes and looks down, he’s a blacker pitch than the shadows ahead.

His head snaps up when he catches the sound of bootsteps moving over gravel and some sort of crackling _hum_ , cocking his head to the side as he listens for a moment before darting into the darkness, following the sounds.

\--

The two agents with Rumlow move warily, keeping a good distance between themselves and the asset leading the way ahead. Not that he can blame them this time. He’s just lucky those codewords worked.

As soon as they’d flipped the switch on the chair, the whole room had exploded in a burning white light, like a blast, except it sounded like...electricity exploding, if he had to describe it. He’d shouted the codewords given to him before the mission on instinct, rapidfire. When his vision had cleared enough to see, it was to a room of charred agents and the asset’s solid, full, glowing red eyes and white claws inches from his face and throat.

Now they’re following at the edges of the shadows caused by the asset still...glowing like a damn _beacon_. Nearly solid white all over, like a ghost, like nothingness in reverse, clothes gone like he’s in full body spandex, almost... _floating_ across the ground even though Rumlow can see his feet moving when he looks, taking steps. It hurts his brain to look at too long, so he goes back to keeping an eye on their surroundings (and the asset’s back).

The asset stops then, air visibly crackling all around its white, glowing form, and then it’s not there anymore-

Rumlow and the agents whip around when there’s an explosion of light from behind them, guns trained on- the clash of the asset and a hissing black thing, the one from the tapes.

 _Rogers_ , Rumlow’s mind supplies.

The black leeches away under the onslaught of the asset’s white light and Rogers remains, staring wide-eyed as the asset shifts back to take up a defensive stance in front of them.

“... _Bucky?_ ” Rogers asks, skin bleached harsh white by the asset’s glow, eyes almost as light.

Rumlow seizes the pause. “ _Soldier!_ ” he barks out in Russian, “ _Kill him!_ ”

The asset lunges before Rogers has time to react - a blur to Rumlow’s eyes - stabbing a pointed claw through his gut and sending him flying over and off the nearest edge, sending him plummeting down into the pitch black ravine below with a quickly fading, echoing shout. The asset watches for a moment from the edge before turning to look at him, hair drifting about with tiny, flashing sparks and blood coating his hand up to his forearm... _evaporating_ in whatever currents he’s radiating.

The hair on the back of Rumlow’s neck stands on end and goosebumps prickle their way up both his arms, locked for a few moments in that red-eyed stare. There’s blue almost smoking out the sides of them, zipping out to join the occasional, electric spark that _zings_ into nothingness around the asset.

“Let’s go,” Rumlow orders, glancing to the two wide-eyed agents as well, “The sooner we get out of here, the better.”

They start moving again with the asset back up in front, leading, one agent’s gun focused on the ravine they gradually leave behind and the other’s focused on the asset’s back.

It’s quiet for a while, save for the crackling from the asset and their steps on the gravel. Rumlow keeps his eyes and ears open, scanning their surroundings continuously, so he’s the first to notice it: the absences of a set of scuffing steps behind him. He whips around, gun trained, the other agent following his lead, but there’s nothing, no evidence there was a third agent with them at all.

“ _What the hell_ ,” he mumbles, “Rogers?” he calls, eyes darting around. The asset slowly shifts forward from behind them and then stops, eyes focusing on some random point in the dark. Rumlow trains his gun on it, the other agent doing the same. _Always listen to your dog’s instincts_ , he thinks briefly. “No point hiding if the asset can see you,” he calls into the dark.

Silence.

He swallows, forcing his fear back. It’ll just get him killed.

He hears a sucked in breath from his back left and jerks around with the asset-

The _other_ agent is gone.

 _Shit_ , he thinks, looking around quickly. The exit should be close. Not much further. He just needs to get out of here and find the backup quinjet. “Asset. _Seek and destroy target_ ,” he barks out in Russian, making a run for it as soon as the asset moves, “ _Meet up at Rendezvous Delta after mission complete!_ ”

Black and white clash, smoke and static. The asset snarls, deep and scratchy like his vocal chords are in a blender while the black one grits its teeth and tightens its grip, claws locked together in yin yang, fingers intertwined.

“Bucky! It’s me, Steve!” Steve tries, voice double toned and distorted. Bucky just snarls again before shoving him back-

The black one disappears straight through the shadowed, solid rock wall and the asset stares, then darts its eyes around, sensing for the target-

“ _Bucky! Please!_ ” echoes from all over, and the asset shifts, eyes rapidly moving from place to place, searching, _searching_ -

Darkness suddenly leaps up from _everywhere_ and converges and the asset yells, long and loud as it swallows him whole, echo cut off midway as the cave system goes completely dark and silent.


	15. Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. All caught up. I haven't been writing a lot because my notebook is like 98% full but I just ordered another one this morning SO. Soon I hope.

His senses gradually come back online one at a time, like before-

Before?

Before. That sounds right. What happened before?

Touch: He’s laying on something hard, but not cement ( _cement? Before_ …)

Hearing: Birds singing somewhere, lonely, solitary notes on a heavy curtained silence ( _silence? Before. Deafening silence_ )

Smell: Water, snow, ice, trees. Winter-

 

“ _They look desperate for food,” someone says quietly, “It’s Winter_.”

 

Winter-

 

_Something floats past his nose and his eyes dart up._

_Stars are falling._

_Flakes drift down, slow and carefree from the night sky between the naked branches to touch down to the snow he's standing in, soft like lashes against his cheeks when they light on his skin._

_He stares up at the sky._

 

“ _All we have is our Winter_.”

 

He squeezes his eyes shut.

 

“ _Soldier_ ,” _an older man’s voice echoes_.

 

“ _You will be our new Fist of Hydra_ ,” _a lighter one does_.

 

His eyes snap open and he jolts up to sitting, white in his vision receding. He slowly takes in his tattered, singed clothes, like he was in a blast-

Before realizing he’s not alone, eyes darting over to the overly still figure- person in the corner of what is- A cave? A man-

 _Steve_. His name is Steve.

The Asset- Soldier- stares.

Bucky. His name is Bucky ( _is it? Yes. Yes, it’s his now. It’s **his**_.)

Steve stares back, watching him closely. “Do you know me?”

Bucky nods slowly, keeping eyes on him. “Steve,” he confirms, settling just slightly when Steve does, easing a little out of that unnatural stillness that makes Steve look strange. Too much like a killer. Too much like the Soldier ( _too much like him_ ). “What happened?”

“You were taken by Hydra,” Steve answers, slowly easing forward out of the corner like he’s approaching a skittish cat. He might be. Is he? He’s not sure. “I found you, but a man was calling you ‘asset’ and ordered you to kill me. You were _glowing_ Bucky.” Steve’s tone and eyes take on a level of awe, but the Soldier’s too busy trying to remember to focus on it, eyes hazing over as the memories slowly spatter into place. “You were amazing.”

Bucky focuses again, looking over at Steve then down at his hands.

Glowing?

He focuses, and when his hands begin to glow an electric white, he jerks slightly, the light quickly fading as he remembers the voice. It’s clear, like a bell in his head when he recalls it, as clear as when he first heard it, but not like he’s hearing it again. It’s the clearest thing he can remember.

 _‘I’m curious as to what **you** will become if you agree_.’

He curls his fingers, repressing a shudder.

He doesn’t like it.

“What do you remember?” Steve asks almost gently, pulling him out of his thoughts. He’s a little grateful.

“Not everything,” he answers, “I’m still sorting through the pieces.” Steve slowly settles in against his side and Bucky lets him, only half ignoring the tingle up his side from the contact.

“It was that chair, wasn’t it,” Steve says more than asks, but there’s still a question there, so Bucky answers.

“Yes.”

Steve looks down at Bucky’s hands. “It takes your memories away.”

“Yes,” the Soldier makes himself answer again. He almost starts when Steve’s hand slides light and smooth over his right one, eyes darting down in time to see it move to his left, gripping the metal. He can feel the pressure, something firm but still gentle, knowing Steve. Does he know Steve? It’s all in scattered pieces again, but not as badly as the time before it, before he escaped. He’s still not free, even now. Maybe he never will be.

Steve leans their shoulders together and the Soldier lets out a slow sigh, lets them both hear it. He can breathe if he wants, he can be real, in the here and now, for a moment. For more, if he wants. He can do that. He can _want_ , and he can _do_ , and he can have-

He looks over at Steve.

Steve’s eyes are down, watching their hands, shifting ever so slightly like he’s taking them in. Bucky curls his metal fingers over Steve’s, around them, holds them like a gently trapped bird. Steve’s eyes shift up to his and his heart wants to kick a beat it can’t. There’s something Bucky wants to say, something building at the back of his throat, the base of his tongue, but he doesn’t know what it is, so it doesn’t fly out of his mouth. But he doesn’t crush its wings, either, tightening his fingers a little more around Steve’s. Steve looks like he wants to say something too, lips parted and eyes a little wide. His mouth closes and his lids lower a little, eyes becoming soft and warm. Bucky feels Steve’s fingers tighten their pressure around his metal ones, sensors alight and alive under Steve’s touch.

Bucky takes a slow breath and Steve does too, matching him. Bucky leans their heads together, temple to forehead, and closes his eyes. “You should go back to your friends,” he says quietly, feels Steve’s head shift a little against his.

“No. I can contain you if you’re worried.”

“You could _that_ time,” Bucky counters.

“No,” Steve repeats after a moment, “I’m not leaving.” He lifts his head and Bucky opens his eyes to look at him. “Not without you.”

That echoes somewhere deep in him and he searches Steve’s eyes for an answer. “I could kill you, Steve.”

“I won’t let you,” Steve replies, shifting his head closer- He hesitates, watching Bucky, and Bucky doesn’t stop him when he finally closes the distance, lips touching. They’ve kissed before, hungry, passionate, but this is soft and hesitant, but at the same time certain. Bucky knows without knowing that Steve has made up his mind and will not be swayed.

“You’ll stay with me,” Bucky says more than asks when Steve pulls away, but doesn’t go far.

“Forever,” Steve whispers, breath soft across his lips.

“That’s dangerous,” Bucky cautions.

“So are we,” Steve replies, “So is everything.”

“But you...you are important,” Bucky tries one last time.

“To who?” Steve repeats from before, staring at him, waiting.

Bucky stares back, struggling, but doesn’t look away. It’s always simple to give in, except when it’s not. He brushes flesh fingers across Steve’s cheek, feels the ends of Steve’s bangs alight along his skin. “We need to rest,” he finally says.

Steve presses their foreheads together. “Sleep with me?”

“...Alright,” Bucky allows, letting Steve pull him down to the ground with him. Steve doesn’t curl around him like he expects, just keeps hold of his hand and curls up on his side facing him. Bucky, the Soldier, the asset...lets himself touch, slowly tangling their fingers together, and lets himself rest. It’s not awkward this time, and Steve doesn’t let go.

It’s not safe here, they could be found, he could revert, but alone with Steve, it feels like it is.

\-----

“I’m looking for an agent that might have passed through here. Looks like this.” Natasha holds her phone up to the screen, profile picture pulled up to show the agent.

“ _He came through here on his way back to the Triskelion_ ,” the agent replies after leaning in close, blonde hair cropped and smoothed back off of his large forehead, “ _Did he go against orders?_ ”

“Why do you ask?” she asks, putting her phone away.

The agent glances briefly to the side, looking nervous, so she smiles nice and sweet. His cheeks flush and he continues.

“ _He seemed tense, and like he was in a hurry. And he’s not from this country’s base. He was very far from home past mission expiration_.”

“Do you know which direction he was coming from?” she asks.

“ _I’ll send you the data_.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” she replies in Romanian, saving it for just that moment, another sweet smile put on her face. His cheeks flush again and he smiles shyly before the call disconnects. The onboard system beeps when the data comes in.

“Where we headed?” Clint asks, coming up through to the cockpit and leaning on his forearms against the doorway.

“Probably another demolished Hydra base, if my instincts are correct,” she answers, reading over the data and plotting the course.

“Which they almost always are,” he returns, stepping in and dropping down into the copilot seat, “Ninety-nine percent accuracy.”

Her lips curl. “Take the wheel.”

He does, asking after a pause, “Do you know what a meme is?”

Her small smile curves wider and he huffs faintly.

“Of course you do.”

\-----

_A woman singing, soft and sweet. He can’t understand the words, they’re muffled, indistinguishable, but the voice makes him feel warm...safe. He hasn’t felt safe in-_

_A scream. A knife slicing across a throat. The flash of a gunshot. Red red red. Red blood, red eyes, red haired little girls. Everyone kills. Everyone dies. There is no escape-_

_Blue. Blue eyes, blue clothes, blue uniform, blue metal glinting in sunlight. Get out of the sun, St_ -

 

The Soldier blinks awake, view filled with the top of a head of blonde hair. He is not warm; he is not cold. He just _is_. He pulls his head back and looks down.

Steve is curled against him, face nearly shoved into his neck. The Soldier slowly raises a hand and cradles the back of his head, lightly, so as not to wake him.

Steve shouldn’t be here, but he is, and will be. Will Hydra be here too? He and Steve can outlive them, but he doesn’t want to spend the next century hunting them. He doesn’t want to wake up one hundred years from now and see Hydra out the window, razing the world. He doesn’t want that for Steve either.

He leans forward, lets his body move on its own and presses his lips lightly to the top of Steve’s forehead.

This must all end, one way or another.

\-----

Steve hums while they walk, trekking through the snow in Bulgaria behind Bucky. The storm is getting worse. He's seen a total of three deer, three squirrels, and two rabbits trying to find cover on their way. He's still not sure where that last base was, but he destroyed everything on his way out with his...new abilities. He didn't know shadows could be so versatile. Bucky hasn't asked about his new powers. Steve wonders if he remembers what happened. He hasn't asked Bucky either.

He squints into the snow storm, jacket whipping around him and pants blown against his legs. He narrows his eyes to slits, more out of annoyance because snowflakes keep hitting his eyes than anything else.

“Do you think Ross is Hydra?” he asks.

“Possibly,” Bucky’s response comes back to him on the wind, “My knowledge is not wholly reliable.”

“Maybe we should just destroy everything,” Steve thinks aloud, more to himself than to Bucky.

“Including your Avengers?” Bucky asks.

“No,” Steve replies immediately, “They're good people.”

Bucky doesn't say anything to that.

They find a cave system to spend the day in, curled up together. Steve relishes all of the contact and wakes up that evening practically plastered all along Bucky. When he looks, he catches Bucky’s lips twitching and turns his head to hide his smile, making himself pull away and sit up even as his heart soars.

Other Bucky grins, giving him a thumbs up, and Steve grins back when Real Bucky’s back is turned, then doesn't bother to keep hiding it when Real Bucky takes his hand, walking side by side with their fingers interlocked.

The storm passed while they were sleeping, so it's a clear sky and stars above their heads ‘til dawn.

\-----

Steve shifts a little when he hears a noise, yawning and cracking his eyes open, squinting at the sunlight at the other end of the cave over Bucky’s broad shoulder-

At the two silhouettes in the middle of it, moving closer.

He blinks a couple times, darting his eyes down to make sure they're leaving tracks in the dirt. They are. They're real. Once they think they're close enough, they ask something in what Steve assumes is Bulgarian while he takes in their jeans and gloves and boots, their thick winter coats, the backpacks on their backs.

Bucky’s gone subtly stiff in his arms and Steve looks down, sees Bucky’s cold, gray eyes open and on him.

The woman repeats her question while the man gets closer and crouches down a few feet away, an unwitting rabbit within striking distance of a snake, thick gloved hands wrapping around his backpack’s shoulder straps.

Bucky tilts his head slightly towards them, eyes still on Steve, and Steve nods, looking over Bucky’s shoulder at the woman while Bucky turns his head to look at the man, eyes glowing a smouldering red.

They leave the two in the cave and head out into the winter night towards the base, warm hand in warm hand.

\-----

They walk and sleep for four more days before they finally reach the base. Steve tries to ignore the twisting pain in his entire being. The last thing he ate was a deer he shared with Bucky two days ago.

They crouch behind a rock formation, peeking over the top edge to track two parked trucks and the guard rotation. There's only one way in: two large, heavy metal doors that require a pass code.

“I have an idea,” Steve says, watching the guards closely, that twisting pain _twinging_. He looks over when he feels Bucky looking at him. “We could...compel the guards to attack the base, cause a distraction.”

Bucky slowly raises an eyebrow and Steve looks away to the base, then back.

“It would lower the risk to us,” _you_ , “And make it easier to feed while they're distracted.”

Bucky shifts back slightly, still watching him. “I thought you didn't want to kill humans.”

“They’re Hydra,” Steve replies simply, and it worked when Steve rescued Bucky.

Bucky watches him for a moment more before looking over at the base, the guards. “‘ _They're Hydra_ ’,” he mutters to himself. Steve waits for his verdict. After a minute, Bucky looks back over. “You take the left, I'll take the right. Compel the guards and wait for them to open the doors. We'll part ways inside.”

Steve nods, leaning in without thought and kissing him. Bucky hesitates briefly before returning it and Steve _melts_.

“See you in a minute,” Steve breathes against Bucky’s mouth, eyes alight. Bucky gets up and Steve follows, parting with him to take care of the guards on the left, using his speed.

\--

Steve searches through the halls to the sound of gunfire and yelling and screaming, licking the blood from his lips while he stops and searches every room he comes across, looking for information on other bases, Bucky, anything. Bucky thinks there's bases he doesn't know about, and if they want to wipe out Hydra, they need all the information they can get.

He pauses at the next doorway when he hears a heartbeat and slowly pushes the door the rest of the way open, eyes darting around and quickly scanning the room when he hears a _whimper_.

There's a young boy huddled and cowering in a corner, knees pulled up and hands over his ears, eyes wide on him. They squeeze tightly shut when the boy realizes Steve’s looking at him.

‘ _Gonna spare him?_ ’ Other Bucky asks, stepping into Steve's periphery, then past it, walking forward and crouching down in front of the boy, elbows resting on his thighs and hands hanging down between them. ‘ _Can't be much older than twenty. Not much younger than us, physically_.’

Steve stares, caught in indecision.

‘ _Could spare him_ ,’ Bucky continues, rising to his feet. He walks backwards, hands in his pockets, back into Steve's periphery and then beyond it, shifting behind him. Arms wraps around Steve's waist and he sees Bucky’s chin settle on his shoulder out of the corner of his eye. Steve can't feel him pressed all along his back. ‘ _Then again, he's Hydra_ ,’ Bucky whispers in his ear, ‘ _His choice is made_.’

The boy's eyes crack open, then squeeze shut again when he sees Steve still there, curling up on himself even tighter.

‘ _They killed me_ ,’ Bucky whispers with absent breath.

_A flash of the train, the sound of the heavy wheels on the icy tracks._

‘ _They took my arm_.’

Steve looks down, sees red all down his front, bleeding from Bucky’s ravaged and shredded left arm wrapped around his waist.

‘ _They destroyed everything I was_.’

“I still love you,” Steve says quietly, looking at Bucky’s hands, the left’s mangled fingers slotted with the pristine flesh of the right’s over his stomach.

‘ _I know_ ,’ Bucky whispers, ‘ _But I'll never be who I was again. They killed your best friend, the first person you ever loved. They killed me_ -’

“Steve?”

Steve blinks, sees his own fingers where Bucky’s was, left covered in red, slotted with the clean right’s over his stomach. He looks up-

What's left of the boy in the corner is a shredded, demolished mess of shredded organs and chunks of bone, marrow blood stained white in the wreckage, blood splattered out all over the corner walls like a painting.

“Steve.”

Steve looks over at Real Bucky.

Bucky’s eyes drop to Steve's hands, over to the corner, then back to Steve. He walks over, reaches out slowly and takes Steve's hands with his blood covered own and Steve's chest swells with too many emotions to understand right now.

“What happened?” Bucky asks, voice soft.

Steve hesitates, staring at the blood drying around Bucky’s mouth, then, “I'm fine.”

Bucky studies him for a few more moments before letting go of his hands to take hold of his face instead, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to his lips. It tastes like blood.

“Let’s go,” Bucky says softly.

“Okay,” Steve replies quietly.

Bucky pulls his hands away and Steve feels and smells the blood streaks he leaves behind on his cheeks, then Bucky slowly, stiltedly takes his hand, doing a quick, efficient scan of the room before leading him out of it. It's more a supply closet than anything. There's nothing for them here.

Steve follows him like a lost dog, trying to remember what happened, but there's nothing. He was talking to Other Bucky, then the boy was a pile of organs and bones and blood on the walls, no longer staring or shaking or whimpering. He looks at his hands, the free one and the one in Bucky’s, left covered in red, right clean.

He grits his teeth.

Bucky stops and Steve just barely follows in time to avoid running into his back, eyes jerking up-

And then he hears it: two heartbeats up ahead.

Steve’s eyes drop to the door handle on the door ahead when it slowly starts to turn and Bucky tenses with it, a large cat waiting to pounce. The door _bangs_ open and Agent Romanoff and Barton appear, guns and bow and arrow raised.

“Rogers,” Romanoff says, guns shifting, one on Bucky and one on him. Steve's hackles rise.

“Cap,” Clint greets.

“Romanoff. Barton,” Steve returns, smoothly sliding his hand out of Bucky’s frozen one as he straightens and steps in front of him, blocking him from view.

“You're covered in Hydra,” Clint observes.

Steve refrains from saying ‘ _you should see the other guy_ ’. “It's been a long day,” he says instead. He glances back to check on Bucky, who’s taken on the appearance of calm, but his eyes are focused intently on Romanoff. Steve forces down the uncomfortable feeling in his chest and looks back to Romanoff and Barton. “I'd like to get cleaned up.” He feels eyes on the back of his head briefly.

“I saw a locker room a few hallways back,” Romanoff replies, guns still raised, “Do I have your word you won't compel me to do your bidding.”

Steve's eyes widen. One side of Romanoff’s lips curve up in a non-smile. “Yes,” Steve promises, sincere, “Neither of us will.” He looks back at Bucky again and is surprised to see him give a nod without argument.

Romanoff studies them both for a good minute before slowly lowering her guns and jerking her chin towards the hall behind her. “This way,” she says, looking back to Bucky, “He going to behave?”

Steve swallows down his protests at the wording. “Yes,” he answers. He looks back at Bucky and Bucky looks at him, giving another small nod.

“Barton, take point,” she orders. Barton moves to obey and they start making their way down the maze of halls, Steve and Bucky sandwiched between Barton at the front and Romanoff behind them.

\--

Steve looks around as they walk. There's not much to see, but the bare surroundings alone speak volumes. He glances back and follows Bucky’s line of sight when he looks at something, makes sure to look where Bucky purposefully won't, especially when they reach the area Bucky was searching through.

Bucky looks at a fallen lamp, into what looks like a ransacked waiting room, down four hallways they pass with rows of numbered doors on each side. He avoids looking at a nearby desk a hall away from the rows of doors and into a demolished, overturned lab. He looks into one gym five hallways back but not the one seven halls from it. There's stories everywhere, in every look, or absent look, in every pristine, shining, eye catching piece of metal Bucky’s eyes dart briefly to and then avoid, and the stray few halls they don't. Steve wants to ask, wants to know them all, wants to burn Hydra all the more for whatever memories there are lurking in Bucky’s mind, behind each numbered door and wrecked lab.

Barton finally stops at what really does turn out to be a locker room, a large, ordinary, plain gray locker room, as gray and dismal as the rest of the base so far. He gestures easily for them to do as they please before heading with Romanoff over to lean against a nearby wall to wait. Steve gives them a nod, listening closely to their heartbeats in case this is all a trap (he and Bucky _are_ covered in blood, and they obviously don't trust Bucky. Steve’s not blind) and follows Bucky inside, leaving the open door of the double doors open.

The room is strangely ordinary. But maybe Steve should have expected that. Hydra’s become such a monster in his head, it's easy to forget they're all human after Red Skull. Or maybe that's why it's so easy to forget.

The showers are easy to find, but he and Bucky raid the lockers and supply closets first, tearing locks off metal doors in search of clothes (and maybe towels). Soap and shampoo aren't high on the list since he and Bucky don't sweat, so Steve shrugs it off when he doesn't find any bottles full enough to bother with. He finds yet another pair of black pants to replace the ones he stole from the last base, a navy blue shirt three sizes too big, and a gray jacket of the same, a clean pair of socks to cover his bare feet in his boots, and a clean stack of towels from the supply closet.

He takes his bundle and heads over to the showers, pulling the Stark phone out of his pocket to set down next to them on the flat surface nearest the showers before shedding his blood covered clothes and taking off his boots. He heads in. It's strangely clean.

He turns on one of the showers, not bothering to adjust the temperature. If it's cold, he's felt worse; if it's warm, that’s fine. Neither way matters. He dips his head under as he steps beneath the spray, tilts his face up into it and starts scrubbing at the dried blood around his mouth, on his left hand and up his forearm, looks down and watches the pink water sluice across the pristine, white tile and head towards the center drain. Arms slowly wind around his waist from behind and this time Steve can feel them, can feel Bucky gently press up all along his back from thigh to chest and settle in. Lips press soft to the joint of his neck and shoulder and Steve's eyes slide shut on a sigh, relaxing back into Bucky’s hold and letting himself feel it, be grounded.

“Something’s wrong,” Bucky says quietly against his neck.

Steve cracks his eyes open, but avoids answering at the last second, asking instead, “Do you know Romanoff?”

It's quiet for a time, just the sound of the shower spray and the water going down the drain.

“She is...familiar,” Bucky finally answers. He slides a hand up and the other down, flesh fingers finding one of Steve's nipples while the metal ones wrap lightly around the base of his cock. Steve's breath stops. “I don't want to talk about it,” Bucky whispers near his ear, then drags his lips along Steve's shoulder and up the side of his neck.

Steve tilts his head for him, baring his throat, hands gripping each of Bucky’s when Bucky’s fingers roll his nipple, start to slowly stroke his cock.

“We were talking about you,” Bucky says.

Steve arches his back into Bucky. “I don't want to talk about it,” he parrots with the last of his dispelled breath, tilting his head back until it rests on Bucky’s shoulder. He closes his eyes. Bucky’s hands stop and he _whines_.

“You act different around them,” Bucky persists, slowly, torturously slowly sliding his hand down the length of Steve's cock, “You were talking to yourself.” He squeezes the head gentle but firm and Steve groans, hips giving a slight buck into it even though the panic is building in his chest right alongside the pleasure. Bucky’s getting too close. He's going to figure it out. Steve doesn't want him to figure it out. Steve doesn't want him to leave.

He grips Bucky’s forearm tighter. “ _Buck_.”

Bucky’s fingers pinch his nipple and Steve's body nearly spasms, sucking in a sharp breath, arching his chest up into it. A spark crackles out from Bucky’s fingers against his skin and Steve jolts a little, moan echoing off the tile. Bucky’s hand slides from around his chest to his back and gives a little nudge, and Steve bends forward, placing his palms flat on the shower wall, the water streaming down either side of his ribcage. Bucky’s hand slides down the back of his neck, the length of his spine to his tailbone, fingers slipping down between his cheeks and _pressing_ -

Steve jerks a little, then tries to steady himself against the wall, panting breath he doesn't need. He's never been touched there, not even by himself. He heard about it, back before the war, but he never tried it with anyone before Bucky shipped off, not that he wasn't tempted to just _experience_ it. But he wanted- something impossible. Something he thought was impossible. Is doing this now, with Bucky as he is, wrong? This Bucky is still Bucky, even if he's not. This Bucky is still a person Steve loves, who's touching him this way, who kisses him, and Steve _wants_ him to.

The fingers rub slowly around his rim and Steve _shudders_ , fingers curling and nails scratching through the tile like paper. Bucky’s fingers are merciless, and Steve arches back into it, whining loudly when Bucky pulls his fingers away.

“I want inside,” he hears Bucky say through the water. Steve nods quickly. “We need...something.”

Steve frowns, opening his eyes, unfocused, and tries to look around for something to ease the way. Vaseline, _something_. He feels something thicker than water drip between his cheeks, followed by Bucky’s fingers rubbing at him again, nudging, slowly starting to work their way inside and the question dies before it reaches his throat.

“We've never done this before,” Bucky says, sounding almost uncertain, two fingers slowly thrusting in and out now.

Steve shakes his head. “No,” he manages, head hanging and eyes closed, trying to adjust to the sensation. It's so... _strange_ , but it feels...kind of good, too. Then Bucky’s fingers shift, twist, and curl and Steve jolts with a half-shout, back arching sharply as a _zing_ of pleasure races up his spine to behind his closed eyes, spreads down to his toes and the ends of his fingers, cock heavy between his legs. _Adjusting_ doesn't seem to take so long after that.

Bucky does it again and Steve jolts just as hard before Bucky’s adding a third finger, thrusting them for a minute before pulling them out. Steve whines at the loss, feels... _empty_ without them. More of that thick liquid drops between his cheeks and then something thick and warm nudges against his entrance, the tip pushing inside.

 _Bucky’s cock_ , Steve thinks dizzily.

He tries to relax into it, the pain healing almost faster than it starts, groaning heavily as Bucky slowly presses inside with little, patient thrusts. Steve's mouth drops open at how it _feels_ , fuller by far than Bucky’s fingers were. He pants, sucking in a breath when Bucky’s hips brush then bump then press against his ass and he's all the way inside.

Fuck, he feels so _full_ , split and spread open in a strange new way he's not yet sure how to feel about.

The hand still wrapped around his cock lets go and Bucky’s arm wraps around his chest instead, pulling Steve up so his back is flush with Bucky’s front. Bucky gives a small thrust at the new angle and Steve's mouth drops open again.

“Oh- Oh my God,” Steve lets out, gripping the arm around his chest tightly. Bucky’s free hand grips his hip and Steve's free hand follows to tightly grip Bucky’s, breath stuttering when Bucky gives a longer, sharper thrust, the sound of their skin meeting mingling with Steve’s stuttering breath. Steve angles his hips back to meet the next one and sees stars, his loud, unrestrained moan echoing off the tile. There's still some uncomfortable friction, but he heals so quickly it hardly matters.

Bucky pours more of that thick-warmth down between them and the friction nearly disappears entirely.

“What-” Steve starts to ask, looking back over his shoulder, but Bucky kisses him before he can finish and Steve tastes blood, thick and warm and _good_. Bucky thrusts again, starts up a slow rhythm, hitting that spot deep inside over and over again and Steve moans into his mouth, nails digging sharp into Bucky’s skin.

 _Oh. That's what that is_ , Steve thinks dazedly.

He doesn't last much longer after that. Bucky’s hand slides down from his hip to stroke his cock as his thrusts gradually speed up, get faster, harder, cock sliding dizzyingly slick and warm inside and when the kiss finally breaks, Bucky’s teeth sink into his shoulder and Steve comes with a long, echoing, helpless _shout_ , Bucky following close behind with a final sharp thrust and heady groan.

They stay together that way for a minute, gradually coming down from the high. Bucky lets go of his cock to reach up and turn Steve's face a little closer, kissing him again.

“I love you,” Steve whispers between them before he realizes what he's doing. Bucky goes still, staring at him through long, dark, wet strands of draping bangs and Steve freezes, immediately wants to take the words back and retreat, hide, something, _anything_.

He shifts forward and Bucky’s cock slides out, water running pink again, but when Steve tries to pull away, Bucky’s arm tightens around his chest, coiling quickly. The air crackles as Bucky keeps him there. Bucky kisses him again, longer, harder, other hand brushing Steve's wet bangs out of his face after he pulls away, then presses their foreheads together.

“I don't remember what love is,” Bucky says quietly, looking at him, eyes shifting slightly back and forth between Steve's own, “You make me feel…” Bucky’s eyes go thoughtful, a little distant, then look a little uncertain. “You make me feel.” He tightens his arm around Steve. “I want to keep you safe.”

“Why?” Steve asks again, searching his steel, gray-blue eyes. They're more gray with all the white tile around.

“Because you're important,” Bucky answers, pausing, looking at him closely.

Steve holds his breath, then whispers against Bucky’s lips, “To who?”

Something in Bucky’s expression cracks and he looks vulnerable for the first time in seventy years, hand cupping Steve’s cheek like he's made of glass. “To me,” Bucky finally answers in a whisper, “You're important to me. You always have been.” He stops, swallowing.

Steve's eyes sting but nothing comes out. He turns in Bucky’s hold and reaches up to cup his cheeks, pressing their foreheads together firmly and huddling in close. He debates with himself for a minute before finally letting himself crack a little, too. “No matter what?” he whispers.

Bucky watches him for a moment before nodding, pulling him closer.

“Even if…” Steve worries his lower lip, ignoring the small, fading stings, eyes down, “Even if I... _see_ things? Hear things?” He risks a glance up. Bucky just watches him. “I'm not the same anymore either Buck.”

Bucky’s eyes drop down and Steve holds his breath for a second time, watching and waiting, hoping and fearing.

“I...heard something, in the Chair,” Bucky says quietly, “A voice. It helped me.”

“Gave you your new power?” Steve asks, straightening a little.

Bucky’s eyes snap up. “You heard it.” Steve nods. “It gave you…” Steve nods again. “It mentioned you.”

“I heard him in the ice, too-” Steve's mouth snaps shut, teeth clacking, and Bucky’s eyes widen a few fractions.

“...You were awake,” he realizes, frozen. Steve closes his eyes. “How long?”

He doesn't want to answer, but he does. “The whole time.” The hand on his cheek tightens and Steve tries to duck his head, cringing a little when Bucky won't let him.

“ _Steve_.”

Steve lets go of Bucky with a hand and grips the hand Bucky has on his cheek. “I'm broken, Buck,” he confesses quietly. In some corner of his mind, he knows he is, but there's just...if he says anything, everyone will try to take away the only thing that helped him cope with Bucky’s loss, the years in the ice. But maybe...maybe Bucky won't.

It's quiet for a minute. Steve's afraid to open his eyes.

“You know I'm real?” Bucky finally asks.

Steve nods, hears Bucky let out a breath, feels it brush across his lips. Steve feels a thumb brush across his lower one and lets out his own breath, slowly opening his eyes and looking up.

“You're still important to me,” Bucky says, and Steve can't cry tears anymore, his body won't make them, but his face scrunches up and he buries his face in the side of Bucky’s neck anyway, holding onto him tightly. Bucky’s hand moves up to cradle the back of his head, and the weight that's been in Steve's chest fades away. He feels free.

\--

They finish their showers and get out, get dressed. Steve can't stop smiling, and can't help sticking close to Bucky either. When they finally exit the locker room, both Barton and Romanoff are sitting on the floor playing what looks like a strange version of rock, paper, scissors. Romanoff makes a sign Steve doesn't recognize and Barton makes an anguished face before looking up.

“Helluva long shower guys,” he comments, giving a little, knowing grin.

Steve just shrugs, smile not diminishing in the slightest.

“So,” Barton says as he pushes himself up to his feet with Romanoff, “Where to next on your Burning Hydra World Tour?”

Steve was anticipating Barton and Romanoff wanting to come along, probably to keep an eye on him, but right now Steve's in too good of a mood to be too put off by it. He'll come up with a way to lose them eventually, or Bucky might. Steve doesn't really want them along for the whole way, and he's not sure Bucky does either.

But, for now.

“I recall a base in Moldova,” Romanoff says. That gets Bucky’s attention. His eyes slant to her and she smiles coyly back. “Did you get that one? Or did we just miss the fireworks.”

Steve glances at Bucky and then back to her, shaking his head.

“Well, if no one has any complaints, it looks like we have our destination.” She turns and heads down the hall. Barton gives them a shrug and follows.

Steve looks over at Bucky again, who watches her go for a moment before looking back, then straight ahead again as he starts walking. Steve follows Barton’s example and quickly follows, staying close.


	16. Nickel for your thoughts?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting 16-18 right now so keep a lookout for the two chapters after this one. Kay's been REALLY, really sick so she's been unable to beta for a bit. I HOPE YOU'RE FEELING BETTER KAY. ;-; Thank you for betaing theeeeeeeese. <3

“How did you find us?” Steve asks, sat next to Bucky in the back of the quinjet.

“Agent Rumlow. Probable Hydra agent,” Barton answers, “Tracked his movements to the base.” Bucky tenses slightly and Steve feels it where their shoulders are pressed together, eyes darting to him faster than Barton can pick up on. 

‘Rumlow’? Is that the man from the caves?

“What does this Agent Rumlow look like?” Steve asks. Barton pulls out his phone and taps at it for a minute before turning the screen to Steve. 

The man in the picture has black hair, a rough face, dark eyes, and a black shirt. It _is_ the man from the caves.

Steve’s fingers curl and he grits his teeth, trying not to bare them at the screen.

“Going by the look on your face, you know him,” Barton says, tucking his phone back into his pant’s thigh pocket.

“Ran into him,” Steve replies, trying to keep his tone neutral, “He was in a Hydra base.” He doesn’t say he was controlling Bucky.

Barton doesn’t outwardly react, but Steve hears his heart rate pick up a little. “He’s a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.”

“...S.H.I.E.L.D. is compromised,” Steve realizes, eyes widening a little. He’s aware of the shock, but he still feels numb. Hydra is in S.H.I.E.L.D., _Peggy’s_ S.H.I.E.L.D. Hydra _is_ S.H.I.E.L.D.? Fury didn’t seem like Hydra, but then again, Bucky didn’t recognize Steve, twice. Maybe Fury isn’t Fury.

Maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t S.H.I.E.L.D.

Things go quiet after that. Barton moves up to the cockpit while Steve and Bucky stay behind, sitting a little less than halfway down the quinjet behind them.

“How long are we following them?” Steve whispers, just for Bucky’s ears.

Bucky doesn’t look over, just keeps his eyes straight ahead as he answers, “They have information, and you don’t want to compel them.”

Steve huffs a near silent breath. “I want to now more than ever.”

 _You could_ , part of his mind whispers, maybe the Other Bucky part, maybe not, but it’s small enough Steve can shove it into the back of his head.

“How are we going to take the bases out?” he asks next, and, “How are we going to feed?”

Bucky’s expression remains blank. “As we have.”

Steve’s lips curve down, glancing briefly towards the cockpit.

Right. He may have confessed to Bucky that he sees another Bucky, but he hasn’t explained his...facades, the masks he wears to placate and fit in with those who don’t know his secrets. Arguably, Bucky doesn’t know everything about him yet either, but it’s enough that...maybe Steve should tell him the res-

Barton turns in his seat, reclining back with familiar ease and says, “Stark misses you. Like, _actually_ misses you. How did you do that?”

Steve blinks a little, caught off guard. Right, Barton couldn’t hear them and know they were talking, but Steve doesn’t think he’s dumb enough to think they _weren’t_ communicating somehow.

Steve makes himself shrug a little and pick up the thread. “He just likes me?”

Barton tilts his head, staring up at the cockpit’s ceiling window consideringly. “Maybe. He’s actually attached to you, like one of those small dogs I always see at least one lady carrying in a grocery store.”

Steve doesn’t comment on that, and tries not to make too much of a face. “I don’t know.” 

Barton says something else, but it’s muddled and fogged and Steve can’t make out the words, like he’s listening underwater. He nods his head a little when Barton’s lips stop moving and leans back in his seat, shifts his eyes away.

‘ _Picking up on another broadcast?_ ’ Other Bucky asks, loud and clear. It’s jarring.

‘ _Maybe I just can’t keep listening_ ,’ Steve replies, shifting his eyes to stare out the windshield, the brown of Other Bucky’s pant legs in his periphery. It’ll be daylight for some time.

‘ _Yeah. Sure_ ,’ Other Bucky returns, entirely unconvinced, not that Steve can blame him, or correct him. They both know he’s lying.

Steve sits back a little more in his seat, glancing back to the cockpit. Barton’s facing forward again, seemingly talking with Romanoff. 

“We can’t eat people around them,” he whispers. Bucky leans back a little more in his own seat and then leans their shoulders firmly together. Steve holds in a shudder. “We work with them for now?”

Bucky’s right hand touches his knee, then slides up to settle on his thigh. Steve all but _melts_ , toes curling in his boots and eyes falling shut.

“For now.”

\-----

They reach some isolated part of Moldova twenty miles from the nearest town, or village, as Romanoff puts it. She leads them out and down the ramp into the barren copse of trees, Barton groaning about finally getting to stretch his legs and get some fresh air.

“You should stretch more,” Romanoff comments, sounds like it’s almost a tease. Barton shoots her a look but Romanoff stays as impassive as a sphinx, like she usually is. An inside joke, then. Steve and Bucky used to be full of them, but now they’re filled with...other things.

Steve follows Bucky down the ramp, nose assaulted with winter and cold and animals and forest, nearly wiping away the hours of chemical cleaner, sweat, metal, and more leather than anyone should probably be around. Two different, violent scents, one demolishing the other in a vy for dominance.

Romanoff starts walking, leading again, and Steve follows Bucky, frowning a little when Barton subtly signs him over. Steve glances at Bucky, then Romanoff, then back to Barton, slowing just enough to come up next to him and for Bucky to pull away. 

Steve hates it.

“How are you holding up?” Barton asks. 

Steve tries not to let his discomfort at the distance to Bucky and his confusion at the question show and falls into the line of the conversation. “Good, actually. It’s been familiar.” Traveling the countryside with Bucky with very little beyond the clothes on their backs and a Hydra base to destroy as their true north; it’s very familiar.

“Familiarity is good,” Barton returns. 

Steve can hear the low rumble of Bucky’s voice start up ahead, the higher, smoother one of Romanoff. He keeps his eyes on the back of Bucky’s head and struggles not to listen. 

He _hates_ it.

\--

The red woman is familiar. Bucky can’t help thinking it even as he moves to crouch behind a tree, eyes on the base ahead. The red woman is familiar, but he doesn’t know why, even after talking to her (barely).

His fingers curl tight, just shy of breaking skin.

There’s...something, a feeling he gets when they walk side by side, but he can’t trace where it leads no matter how long they do and how much he tries. 

“So, how do you usually take a base?” the red woman asks. Romanoff. Something in her tone...sly? He’s not sure. He’s still trying to understand his own emotions.

“Different,” Steve answers before he can, “There’s four of us now. How do you want to handle it?”

Romanoff’s lips twitch up just a fraction. “Barton can cover us from out here while we sneak in. You two can use your speed and strength to take out the guards and get us inside.”

Steve glances to him, seemingly for...permission? So Bucky nods, accepting the alteration for now.

“Operation Uncover Hydra’s Dirty Laundry is now under way,” Barton near whispers before darting away to find a better a tree.

Romanoff un-crouches and starts moving towards the base, and Bucky and Steve follow her like shadows. 

When they strike, they move using their speed and strength as agreed upon. Bucky keeps an eye on Romanoff and Barton while Steve keeps an eye on all three of them.

“They might have traps,” Steve says quietly once the guards are taken care of. Romanoff glances at him and gives a brief nod before slowly pulling the side door open and leading the way inside. Bucky heads down the hall, following her lead. He seems to be doing that a lot, Steve notices, following her. Does he know her?

There’s so many heartbeats in the base. No more than usual, but enough to notice. Bucky looks over when a hand takes his own (Steve’s: smooth, room temperature, the softest thing he’s ever felt on his skin, deceptively so for all the strength underneath).

“ _We can’t eat them_ ,” Steve mouths. Bucky frowns slightly before his expression clears. “ _Sorry._ ”

Bucky watches him, watches Steve look away then back, repeat it, and gives his hand a little squeeze of acknowledgement. Steve relaxes a little.

Animals are scarce in the winter. They may starve, and that is not efficient. 

\--

Clearing the base takes longer with the new tactic, but they get it done. It’s strange working in a group again, for both of them.

Steve feels the hunger pains start at next sundown, which is around the time Romanoff steps out of the cockpit and leaves Barton to fly the jet while heading over to a container bolted to one of the walls and opens it, Bucky tensing slightly against his side. She tosses them each a packet of-

Steve blinks a little down at the _A Positive_ label, looking back up.

“Well, am I wrong?” she asks.

Bucky tears his open with his teeth and starts drinking after a careful sniff. Steve tears his own open and tries not to wince at the taste that pours into his mouth, glancing over at Bucky, whose expression is as stoic as usual.

The blood is cold from being in the cooler, and not-quite...stale, if Steve had to pick a word, like it’s been put on hold, stuck in time like they are with little chance of being revived again. Steve’s ashamed when he realizes it, thinks it, but it doesn’t taste as good as when he shares it fresh with Bucky (and Steve misses his embraces, his touches, the feel of his skin and his scent so close to his nose. He doesn’t have that like this).

“Is this jet being tracked?” Bucky asks after he’s finished. She hands him another and he sniffs at it once before tearing it open and sniffing again, then drinking.

Romanoff takes a seat on the bench row opposite them. “No. I turned off remote and local tracking when I realized how to track Rumlow.”

Steve frowns, licking his lips. “Why didn’t he turn off his?”

She gives a smooth roll of her shoulders. “He probably didn’t spend an hour pulling out the wiring beneath the dashboard after Barton tried to disable it.”

“ _I **told** you I’m not familiar with this model!_ ” Barton calls back.

Romanoff turns her face a little towards the cockpit to reply, “You said it looked close enough.”

“ _It did!...Until it **didn’t**_ ,” he finishes in a half mutter. 

Romanoff’s lips twitch. Steve raises an eyebrow and they curl up slightly. She seems to enjoy teasing him.

Bucky finishes half of his second packet then hands it to Steve, who smiles a little at him before getting his mouth where Bucky’s was, glad for a change that he’s _not_ alive enough to blush. “What do you know about Rumlow?” Bucky asks next.

“Not much,” Romanoff answers, reclining back a little, “I’ve never worked close enough with him to get more than a casual read, and a glimpse of his file. Ex-military, ex-special forces, some black ops work, skilled at infiltration and extraction and demolitions. He drinks with his teammates after hard missions, lives alone with no known family, displays typical alpha male tendencies but has a sharp mind, and is a poor loser at any and all things combat related, though he doesn’t very openly show it.”

Steve stares. It’s easy to do now that he’s a vampire. He doesn’t need to blink. “‘Not much’, huh.”

Romanoff shrugs again, elegantly. “I didn’t suspect he was Hydra,” she returns.

“They lie in wait,” Bucky says quietly, expression a little dark.

“ _Like snakes!_ ” Barton calls back, “ _Fitting!_ ”

“He may be working for Ross, or with Ross,” Romanoff adds, “Ross mentioned his name.”

“This is going deeper than I’d like,” Steve says low after a moment, “S.H.I.E.L.D., the U.S. government.” And maybe more than just that, he realizes, Hydra could be in other governments, probably _is_ in other governments. That’s more work than he was thinking of to get rid of them for good.

Romanoff doesn’t say anything, neither do Barton or Bucky, but the mutual agreement is loud and clear.

“What is the mission?” Bucky eventually asks, or maybe it’s the Soldier.

“We could track down Rumlow,” Romanoff suggests, “Or keep hitting bases until we find a Hydra headquarters, or they start sending teams after us. Force their hand.”

Steve looks over to Bucky, because ultimately it’s his call. Steve may have started all this, but Bucky’s the one most determined to finish it. Steve just wants to make Hydra pay for what they’ve done to him. But for Bucky...Steve doesn’t think it’s that simple for Bucky.

Bucky looks at the ground for a minute while he thinks, utterly still save his fingers curling fractionally in the low light. Eventually, he glances over and Steve waits.

“There are risks,” he says quietly.

“There always were,” Steve returns.

Bucky watches him for a few more moments before looking to Romanoff. “Flush them out. Burn them all.”

She studies him for a moment before getting up and heading back to the front. “It won’t be that simple, but I’ll let our pilot know.”

They both watch her go.

“She agreed too easily,” Bucky murmurs, just for his ears.

Steve sits back a little more in his seat, then looks down at the packet in his hands, eventually making a decision. “We’ll do what we need to,” he murmurs back. He feels Bucky’s eyes cut sharply to him and Steve’s lips twitch up without humor. “Don’t underestimate what I’d do for you,” he whispers. He feels Bucky’s shoulder slowly press into his, keep going until they’re firmly pressed together, and lets his eyes close.

He’s not sure if that’s acceptance, empathy, or sympathy, or maybe Bucky’s just telling him he’s not alone.

\-----

The next base goes much the same, followed by stale blood packet after stale blood packet. It’s easy to adjust to working with Romanoff and Barton, though it is a change, Barton covering them from a distance and Romanoff tagging along. Bucky doesn’t talk much; Steve’s used to his silence, but there’s been more of it since Romanoff and Barton arrived. Barton sometimes tries to make small talk with the both of them and Romanoff occasionally phishes for information, and between the two of them, there’s far less privacy than before and much more noise. 

Steve still hasn’t devised a way to lose them. He might have to resort to running.

\-----

Romanoff is piloting, Steve’s quick to realize when he wakes, because it gives Barton the perfect opportunity to stare at them, or just Bucky, Steve’s also quick to realize, peeking between the back of Bucky’s head and shoulder. He feels a faint vibration through his chest all the way to his heart and realizes Bucky’s growling, too low for Barton to register, even with his hearing aids.

“The Winter Soldier,” Barton muses.

Steve blinks a little.

“Cuddling with Captain America. I feel like I should take a picture just to send to Stark.”

Steve holds in a groan and rolls over, but keeps an ear open just in case Bucky decides Barton’s good enough for breakfast.

\--

Bucky doesn’t eat Barton, thankfully, and Steve manages to get a little more sleep before they reach the next base, with just enough time to eat.

\-----

The base has traps. It’s a flash bomb this time, with a rain of silver, shotgun pellets, and nails loaded into sporadically set off grenades.

It’s getting old, is what it is.


	17. Madness shared by two

Steve pushes himself up to sitting with his good hand (and most of the other), spitting out three burning, silver pellets when they’re finished working their way back up his throat. Some of his left teeth and gums feel exposed to the burnt air, four sharp points for Romanoff and Barton to see.

“How long was I out?” he asks, trying to force himself to his shredded legs and failing. He lands back on the ground with a groaned grunt, dragging half blind eyes down to his legs. He feels down the lengths of them with his hands, gritting his teeth when he bumps into more than one silver nail.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, reaching for the first five to yank them all out with a soft _squelch_ , smells blood everywhere.

“Unknown,” Romanoff croaks out from somewhere behind him, coughing on what sounds like dust. Steve did his best to act as a shield since he doesn’t have one. It sounds like Romanoff made it, at least.

“Bucky?” he calls out, focusing his hearing while he tugs out three more nails, wincing.

 _Silence_.

“ _Where’s Bucky?_ ” he demands, harsher than he intends, especially with his throat torn up like it is.

“Gone,” Romanoff reports before the sound of shifting and sliding rock landing on cement. Steve hears a groan that sounds like it might be Barton.

“GEEZE,” he lets out loudly, “I KNOW THEY WANT HIM BACK BADLY BUT COULDN’T THEY TRY DOING IT MORE QUIETLY.” Steve hears shifting and quiet tapping against what might be plastic. “IT’S LIKE- Oh,” Barton cuts off, “Sorry. Did they nab him?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Steve growls out, double toned and ragged, feels a thrill of energy before it fades and he rips out the last nail, vision slowly clearing. He lets out a hissed breath when he catches wind of something, quickly covering his face with his lower arm. “ _Poison_.”

“Let’s go,” Romanoff says, getting to her feet and quickly moving down the back hall.

Steve finally forces himself to his feet and starts hobbling after, glancing in Barton’s direction when a hand loops his arm around a pair of broad shoulders (not as broad as Bucky’s) and an arm loops around his waist to help him walk. He wants to ask Romanoff what she’s doing, what she knows, but he already knows better about Hydra watching. He settles for keeping an eye on her back instead, at least until they’re back in the quinjet.

She taps something one of the panels below a monitor while Barton eases him down on the opposite bench. The monitor comes alive and shows a blinking, little green dot on a map settled somewhere...South.

“I could kiss you, Romanoff,” Steve says, watching that little blip intently because it’s the most important thing in the world.

She smirks. “Barton, you good to fly?”

“Already on it,” he replies, stepping past them and heading up into the cockpit.

“What time does this make it?” she quips in Steve’s direction, pulling a blood packet out of the cooler and handing it to him.

“Including during the war?” he asks, tearing it open and subtly sniffing it as he gets his mouth on the opening at the top, tilting his head back. He sees her raise an eyebrow out of the corner of his eye.

“You two really need to stop getting kidnapped.”

Steve huffs after he swallows. “You’re telling me.” He can feel his wounds closing already, his exposed teeth and gums slowly getting covered by new skin and healed lips.

“ _Totally missed the opportunity to say ‘vampnapped’_ ,” he hears Barton mutter up front under his breath.

\-----

_Clack-clack-clack-clack._

_Clackclackclackclack_.

Restless nails on cement.

His eyebrows twitch together slightly as he slowly claws his way out from under the heavy fog oppressing his mind. Where is he?

Where _was_ he?

 _Steve, red hair, blonde, a bright light, pain, a delayed, deafening **boom**_.

Another bomb trap, then, another successful attempt to take him. But taking and keeping are different things. Steve was able to find him last time, and he doesn’t doubt Romanoff put a tracker on him somewhere. It feels like something she would do, even though he doesn’t know her. He hasn’t bothered to check and remove it yet for just this reason.

He doesn’t hear anything but the _clacking_.

It’s a struggle to get his eyes open. Bars above is the first thing he sees.

He slowly slants hazy eyes to one side, then the other.

Bars on either side with dogs in the cages next to his, pacing as far from him as they can get.

He raises a hand and tries to focus, barely gets a few sparks out of the tips of his fingers that fizzle out into nothing. He sighs then untangles the angled heap of his legs and drags himself up against the bars, holding in a hiss when moving tears at his apparently already shredded skin. It hurts all over, and it’s difficult to think beyond:

Cage: _Bad_.

Powers: _Fuck_.

Damage: _Painful_.

Steve: _Not here. Good_.

Alone: _Maybe not good_.

He stares out into the room, trying to take stock. Shiny metal table, eye burning bright white walls. He sluggishly glances either side of him again.

Dogs that don’t want him here.

 _I don’t wanna be here_ , he thinks hazily.

Wait.

‘ _Hello?_ ’ he thinks as loudly as he can. There’s something back, but it’s muffled and distorted and sounds very far away, which is about when he notices the thing wrapped around his ankle. He reaches down and slowly tugs his right pant leg up.

Now he’s back to: _Fuck_.

He tries tugging at the IV line going through the device around his ankle and jerks with the resulting electric shock, fangs gritting and fingers giving small spasms. He sags back against the bars when it ends, letting out a low, frustrated growl.

He could try cutting the tubing, but that could end in a neverending shock, or a harder one, and he’s not fond of getting electrocuted. It’s hard to tell how the device is set up, simple as it looks. Black firm padding wrapped in a thick layer of dim, silver metal with the IV tube going through a slot in the metal.

He sloppily crosses his legs and drags his ankle closer by his foot, trying to get a better look through his fuzzy vision. There’s too much poison in his system, because it’s unlikely to be anything else. They’re not making the same mistakes as last time (and he has little doubt the cage is rigged, too).

Part of his mind is focused on his situation, but in his current state, the rest is…

 _Steve_ , he thinks, staring out at the room, up at the cage ceiling, _I want to see Steve_.

His throat starts to go tight and he swallows, shifting his eyes back down to try and focus on the device again. He gets that off, he might be able to see him.

His expression hardens and he bends down closer.

\-----

Steve’s still staring straight ahead at the blinking green dot on the monitor in the back, still as a stone. Or maybe a statue?

“He’s been like that for almost an hour,” Barton murmurs, looking over his shoulder back into the jet.

“Leave him,” Romanoff returns just as quietly, eyes on the sky ahead.

Barton cocks a brow at her and signs with the hand furthest from view of the rest of the jet: _Still don’t trust him?_

Romanoff barely taps two fingers on the steering handles in her grip in reply.

Barton thinks it over a moment before: _Think he’ll be fine?_

Romanoff slants her eyes over and signs back in their shorthand: _Soldier missing. Important. Unpredictable._

Barton’s eyebrows furrow a little: _Bad?_

She glances back over her own shoulder at Steve, who still hasn’t moved. She’s fairly sure he hasn’t blinked since they boarded either, like a perfect porcelain doll. He’d have been the envy of the Red Room.

She looks forward again.

It’s like everything human in Steve left when Barnes did, or most of it. She’s not counting on him playing along much right now, especially if anything gets in his way. He’s unpredictable, and that’s dangerous.

Movement out of the corner of her eye catches her attention.

 _What do you want to do?_ Barton signs.

 _Be cautious_ , she signs back, glancing at the blinking green dot on the side panel before turning her eyes back ahead.

\-----

The door at the other end of the room eventually opens, doesn’t creak or make a sound on rusted hinges. That just makes the tight feeling in his stomach even tighter.

“Well, looks like we finally found something that works,” a familiar voice says.

The sound of bootsteps on the pristine, white tiled floor, black, blurry pant legs moving closer, a sharp contrast against the white. The man crouches and Bucky can just make out his face through his blurred vision.

Rumlow smirks. “Evenin’, sunshine.”

Bucky’s brows lower a little.

“We can finally deliver you where you were supposed to go.” Rumlow leans a little closer, smirk stretching wider. Bucky focuses briefly on his canines before looking back up. Almost sharp enough to be... “Any questions?”

Bucky’s lips twitch back in a silent snarl and Rumlow laughs as he stands, kicking at the front of the cage once before walking away, the door shutting silently behind him. Bucky’s eyes lower back to the device and he gets his fingers carefully on the tube, then just as carefully, slowly tries to pull it out.

He gets shocked twice when he pulls fractionally too hard and fast, but it budges. He starts whispering, just nonsensical things, but the dog’s pacing increases on either side of his cage and grows in count.

They’re all doing it now.

\-----

“Coming up on the dot,” Romanoff reports, more to see if she can get a reaction out of Steve than out of necessity. His eyes don’t move from the screen. “We’ll reach it in thirty minutes if nothing changes.” She glances back over her shoulder.

Steve still doesn’t move, but she notices him blink, just the once.

She feels eyes on her and looks over.

 _Getting worse?_ Barton signs.

She inclines her head slightly.

The most dangerous thing is she can’t know for sure, Steve’s a sphinx where before he wasn’t. Does that mean all his previous behavior is useless for determining it now? Or is he more damaged than she thought? She has the time now to analyze it, but not enough data. She’s only seen Steve interact without Barnes when he thought he was dead, and seeing them together had been too brief to gather as much information as she needs now. There’s too much subjective, too many unknown variables to make a conclusion. The best she can do is make an educated guess, and it’s not very educated as it is.

\-----

The door opens again about ten minutes later and Bucky gently lets his hand fall to the wayside, letting go of the tube. He continues whispering without moving his mouth, just his tongue. The dogs start barking when three sets of legs start approaching the cage, snarling and growling low with the appearance of two more and the closer they get.

“What the hell’s gotten into the test dogs?”

“How should I know? Do I look like the _dog whisperer?_ ”

“He can’t use any of his power shit, right?”

“Shouldn’t be able to. They’ve got him dosed up enough to near killing him.” A kick to the cage. “Can a vampire even _die?_ _Hey, Rumlow, sir?!_ ”

“ _What?_ And what the hell’s with all this racket?”

“Don’t know. They won’t stop.”

The sound of metal sliding against firm material, the sharp _click_ of a gun being cocked.

Bucky stops whispering and the dogs quickly, gradually fall silent. Everything is still for a minute before a pair of legs walk closer to the front of his cage, then Rumlow crouches down into view, gun dangling between his thighs. “Well, looks like that’s taken care of.”

The Soldier keeps his expression blank.

“Load’im up,” Rumlow says as he rises, holstering his gun and stepping away.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

\--

The rolling of the cart’s wheels over the cement sends a vibration up his spine and to his head that sets his teeth on edge, makes his fingers curl slightly. Every little bump and divot in the ground makes the cart jerk and jolt and his cage rattle, the bars knocking against the back of his skull, an annoying rapping against the cloying fog in his head. It helps him think a little clearer, the minute pain giving him something to focus on every time the fog briefly shrinks back. Another agent joins them at one of the various intersecting hallways and the Soldier tries to focus his hearing past the rusted grinding of the cart’s swiveling wheels and the heartbeats of the other agents.

“Sir, reports of a large storm approaching from the East, thick fog and lightning. We’ve been ordered to detour to the second location.”

“Fine,” Rumlow replies, “Everyone know?”

“Yes, sir. They’re all rerouting and should arrive on schedule.”

“Then that’s all that matters.”

The Soldier keeps his eyes straight ahead while he tries to think, keeping his fractionally twitching fingers away from the tubing. The stark white, overhead lights make the metal cuff around his ankle highlight in dim streaks, drawing his eyes down. No matter how much he wants to finish removing it, now isn’t the time.

The hallways eventually give way and open up to what looks like a large hangar bay. He hears more than sees large ceiling doors spread open, dim sunlight filtering down through the growing gap. He sluggishly glances up briefly, away from the quinjet that looks like their destination to try and get a read on the weather, and then he’s being carted up the quinjet’s back ramp and his view turns to brief faces that pan down torsos to black covered legs and standard issue combat boots, the screeching wheels of the cart coming to a grinding stop.

“Lock in the cage and prepare to depart,” Rumlow’s voice orders, black clad legs moving past his right up towards the cockpit, “I want us wheels up in five.”

“ _Sir.”_

_“Sir.”_

_“Sir_.”

The Soldier slowly scans what he can see of the interior of the jet while they move him, keeps an ear out for any additional strain in their grunts and huffs as they heave him jerkily from the cart and drop him and the cage roughly to the floor. One borderline asthmatic, nothing major. Another healing from a minor gut wound, probably received during combat training or from a superior officer. Might come in handy later. The extra hard jolt to his head sharpens his sense for all of four seconds before the fog starts to descend again, and he uses the time to try and listen for the voice-

’ _-ee you soon_.’

He stares out at the jet as the back hatch starts closing, taking away most of the other sounds and filling his ears with hydraulics and locking metal.

‘See you soon’?


	18. Silence

Steve already knows just by looking, just by smell, but he runs down the ramp anyway, searching the barren landscape. “ _BUCKY!_ ” he shouts, listening intently for a call back, for something, _**anything**_.

 _Nothing_.

His nails pierce his skin and he grits his teeth hard enough to fracture his jaw to hold in a yell, eyes focused on the distance. He’s aware of Romanoff moving, scanning the area with a little machine and then stopping at a tree and reaching into a small hole with her lithe fingers, fishing out what’s probably the tracker she put on Bucky. Steve digs his nails deeper into his palms and tries to stop breathing. He’ll just sound like he’s hyperventilating if he doesn’t.

“Where do we search next?” Barton asks.

Romanoff’s eyes shift to Steve then back again. “We could try tracing Rumlow’s jet.”

Barton shakes his head in Steve’s periphery and he forces his eyes shut. They keep talking, but he stops listening.

‘ _ **Are you there?**_ ’ he thinks, loud and hard.

‘ _I am_ ,’ the voice replies.

" _ **Where is he?**_ " Steve demands.

Barton stares, glancing to Romanoff, then back to Steve. “Steve, are you okay?”

Steve doesn’t move, then suddenly _snarls_ a sound Barton’s never heard from anything, human or animal, and it sends a cold shiver straight up his spine to the roots of his hair.

“ _ **Tell me where**_,” Steve growls in that same sound, eyes still firmly shut.

Something moves out of the bottom of his eye and Barton looks down, eyes widening when he sees Steve’s shadow... _writhing_ , sharp and angry looking. Then Steve _jolts_ sharply, back bowing as he sucks in a sharp gasp, eyes opened wide and white and unseeing, shadow frozen in sharp, jagged shapes. Barton jumps slightly, but that’s all he does, tries to stay completely still. After a moment, Steve unbends like a wire’s been cut and sags forward, head bowed and face hidden by his bangs. Barton risks a glance back at Romanoff, whose eyes are a little wide and has both hands on the hilts of her guns, holsters unstrapped but guns not drawn.

Steve unfolds in a move more graceful than Barton’s even seen from Natasha and his eyes are back to normal, but sharp, focused. His shadow starts shifting-

“ _Rogers_ ,” Romanoff says, low and firm. He barely glances over at her, then seems to pause and looks over again, really looking at her this time.

“I’m going to get Bucky,” he says, the shadows at his feet roiling over and over each other... _peaking_ up out of 2D and into _three_.

“How,” Romanoff demands.

Steve looks over to the jet then starts walking towards it, stopping halfway up the ramp and looking back. “Are you coming?”

Romanoff stares for a long, tense minute before she starts walking, kickstarting Barton into following, and they make their way up the ramp after Steve, her hands on the hilts of her pistols the whole time. They walk past Steve, eyes on him while he hits the button to close the back hatch. As soon as it is, the shadows below him and the ones surrounding him _leap_ up, covering him in **black** from head to toe, eyes whiter than paper and... _smoking?_

Barton’s got his bow out and an arrow notched before he knows what he’s doing and he can see Natasha’s guns pointing straight at Steve from his right.

And Steve just stares at them. “Ready?” he asks, voice...normal, utterly _normal_ for all that he is _not_. He even sounds _impatient_.

Barton feels a hysterical laugh trying to creep its way up his chest and smothers it.

“Barton?” Romanoff asks.

He swallows. “Do it.”

Steve’s head turns slightly and Barton gets the feeling he’s looking up the length of the quinjet, then it turns again to presumably look at the back hatch before his eyes close, white disappearing completely until he’s nothing but a black, smoking silhouette, barely visible in the increasingly dark corner of the jet-

Wait-

Everything goes black and Barton’s hair stands on end. There’s a feeling of something utterly cold and hollow in the center of his chest, like what he’d imagine having outer space where his heart is would feel like: cold, dead but alive, hollow but writhing with so many emotions, too many, _too strong of_ -

And then it’s over almost as soon as it’s begun, the black is gone and Steve is there, looking normal, eyes blue and hair blonde and clothes existing. But that feeling in his chest is still there, faded, but there, and Barton can’t help lowering his bow and rubbing at his sternum with a palm.

He looks over and Romanoff’s eyes are wide, almost empty, almost too full, like everything she was had been scooped out and then dropped back in and nothing fits anymore, edges spilling and sloshing over the sides. He sees her throat work, sees her swallow, sees her fingers barely twitch on the triggers of her guns before she slowly lowers her arms and holsters them, still staring at Steve, maybe even a little through him.

Barton feels like he’s doing the same thing, like looking at Steve almost _hurts_ now, like he’s there but not. Like he’s too _much_ to look at without his brain trying to twist into knots and loops, and knotted loops, trying to understand and not being able to. It almost hurts, but it feels like his entire being is twisting instead, so he forces his eyes tightly shut and _stops_ , stops trying to think, to process, and then forces them open again, looking just above Steve’s left shoulder instead.

“What happened?” he asks.

“We’re here,” is all Steve says, hitting the button for the hatch. It hisses open and lowers down, and Steve heads down the ramp before it’s even all the way settled.

Romanoff drifts into Barton’s field of vision and he looks over, moving a hand to catch her attention and only talking when her eyes finally drag themselves over to him from some distance he can’t see. “Can you work?” he asks.

She stares at him blankly, different from when he met her, worse. She turns back forward and starts walking down the ramp. “Let’s go,” she says quietly, voice a little rough.

Barton follows, making sure to keep close but still give her space.

The ramp opens out to a cave of sorts, a cavern, maybe, the jet parked in the deepest shadows. Which turns out to be for the best, since there’s about ten other jets of various types and styles all parked under what turns out to be a large pair of closed, hangar doors that look eerily similar to the ones at the Triskelion that house the hangars below the Potomac. There’s no insignia on these, but he imagines he can see a stray tentacle here and there done in dark red like old, rusted blood.

Steve stops just shy of the edge of a tall rock formation protruding from the ground at the edge of the hangar itself, looking around it while Romanoff and Barton come to a stop next to him, both giving _him_ space. They peek around him, eyes lighting on the double doors at the other end of the center of the hangar.

There’s a few people heading inside, one dressed like a general and a woman dressed in pristine white, dark brown hair coiled up in intricate curls. Barton frowns, watching them head in before a man in tac gear closes the doors behind them.

Steve starts moving then, making his way along the perimeter and keeping to the shadows. Barton follows Romanoff, shadowing both their steps. They stop when Steve does, wait when he signals them with his fingers, and move when he moves, eyes roving the rocky walls and ceiling, all the corners they can’t quite make out. Barton assumes there’s security surveillance his eyes can’t pick up ( _of course there is. Why wouldn’t there be_ ), so he keeps quiet and follows, only tensing more when they finally reach the last curved corner at the stretch of wall that leads straight to the double doors. They ease along the wall, each keeping an eye and ear out for anything, anyone, then Steve stops at the final rock outcropping, edging as close as he can to the end of it and just barely peeking around the edge.

Barton glances down when he catches movement again and watches, fascinated, as the shadows at Steve’s feet stretch and curve around the outcropping. He hears a faint click, then another, and another, then the sound of a heavy door slowly, quietly creaking open.

Steve moves and Romanoff and Barton follow, both glancing at the open, unlocked door as they head inside (and neither jumping when it closes behind them - _just barely_ \- putting the hallway into low, lamplit lighting). They move quiet and steady, listening and following closely.

Steve stops at an intersection of halls, turning his head one way and sniffing at the air, then cocking it, and repeating it with the other, then straight ahead. He heads straight when he seems to find what he’s looking for, then turns left at the next hall, then right, slowing as they approach the next intersection before picking up pace again and heading straight.

Barton glances down the left and right halls, but doesn’t see or hear anything. Whatever, _who_ ever was unlucky enough to be there isn’t, now. Then Steve stops suddenly, just when Barton can barely make out what sounds like a yell-

And then Steve’s just gone, the space he was in empty, and Romanoff glances back at Barton before nodding her head forward and he nods back, both of them running quick and silent towards the distant yelling growing louder and louder-

The both come to a smooth stop just before a barely cracked open door. Romanoff slowly, quietly eases it open and they pause when they find Steve’s back, his attention on something below over the railing. The yelling comes again, then words, and they both step closer to see what he’s looking at.

There’s a dark stage below with a bright white spotlight shining down in the center as the main source of light in the curving room. They can see the tops of heads of what look like generals, politicians. Barton even recognizes a few country leaders. ...More than a few.

His eyes snap up at another yell, loud now. It’s coming from an overhead projection screen hanging down to the right of the stage light, and it’s- Barnes. Barnes is the one yelling. His hair is shorter in the video, the footage lined and aged, like it was filmed in the seventies. The arm is off and he’s strapped to a chair that’s-

Barton cringes. So that’s why he doesn’t remember much. The video ends and another starts, one with newer looking film, Barnes with longer hair and dead eyes, staring just slightly off center of the screen while three men in white labcoats stand in the background, off to the side with clipboards.

“ _Designation_ ,” someone says out of frame in heavily, German accented English.

“ _Winter Soldier_ ,” Barnes replies, voice as dull and void as his eyes are with his own light accent. Russian, if Barton’s hearing correctly.

“ _Mission_.”

“ _Eliminate three targets. Male, age thirty-five. Female, age thirty-two. Female, age twelve._ ”

“ _Mission status?”_

 _“All targets eliminated. Mission status: Complete._ ”

The three men jot things down and the video ends. Another starts with a wide shot of Barnes in a courtyard of sorts with snow on the ground and five large men surrounding him, equal distances apart. There’s a loudly shouted, “ _Begin!_ ” near the camera and the five men all move at once, alternating strikes while Barnes dodges. It lasts all of three seconds before Barnes starts striking, and within three minutes, all five go down, some with limbs cracked and bent the wrong way. He just stands there in the snow after, doesn’t move, doesn’t look towards the camera, just stands there, chest still.

The video ends and another starts, does a slow pan up of Barnes in his full Winter Soldier gear, zooming in on the arm and then on his masked face. It skips to him putting the goggles on, then selecting his weapons, then leaving, then skips again to him coming back, blood red and bright under the florescent lights streaked up the silver of his left arm and splattered lightly across the front of his black harness and vest.

All Barton can focus on is the one red spot on the high of his cheek, just above the edge of the mask, and how dead his eyes look, a shudder falling low down his spine.

The video ends, and then there’s pictures in some sort of slideshow, some that are black and white that show Barnes with short hair and a stump of a left arm laid out on a metal gurney, feet to head. A headshot of him with scruff and uneven, much shorter hair, eyes hazy and unfocused. There’s one of a prototype of the arm, something older, far less sleek strapped to his mostly healed stump. There’s a profile shot of Barnes with a swollen jaw and cheek, eyes unfocused and an IV line trailing up out of the frame. There’s one of him screaming in what looks like an old chair, more an ancient dentist chair than anything, fangs bared and visible right eye wide and unseeing.

There’s one that kicks Barton in the chest in particular of him, still with the short hair but a little shaggy, and he’s _there_ in his eyes, staring at the camera like a lost and confused child, looks like the kid he was when Hydra probably got their hands on him in that ravine and he doesn’t quite understand, like the photo was taken at some point between the beginning of his hell and the second arm prototype. Barton forgets that Rogers and Barnes aren’t even thirty, when he’s already forty. He forgets how young they were, how young they still _are_ (and will be for longer still, if they live through this).

He finally manages to drag his eyes away, look over at Steve. The black shadows are creeping up his body, are already up to his chest and cloying for more, his eyes a burning white so bright it hurts to look at. Barton hears a _click_ and the slideshow ends, and something seems to click in Steve, too, because the shadows fade and his eyes turn back to blue, but they look just as burning bright in that color as they do in white.

Romanoff is still at Barton’s left between them, eyes ahead and calmer than he’s seen her look since Steve brought them here.

“ _Now, for our live demonstration_ ,” a voice announces, drawing Barton’s eyes back to the stage.

They widen when he sees _Agent Rumlow_ walk up to the cage under the main light, bend down and whisper something while detaching some sort of tube wired along the edge of the cage around to the back of it, then move to the front and unlock the door, pull it open. He says something Barton can’t quite pick up but doesn’t sound like English, and Barnes slowly moves, pushing himself out of the cage and sluggishly up onto his feet. Rumlow steps back and another agent in tac gear moves on stage, lifting a rifle and flipping an end cap off before holding it up, a light shining on the side of Barnes’ face. His skin starts...smoking, charring, glowing a little at the burning edges like embers but Barnes doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink, just keeps staring straight out at the audience while the skin gradually burns off the side of his face.

Barton glances over sharply when he hears a low _hiss_ , eyes widening and body tensing when he finds Steve bent low into Romanoff’s space, her hand unflinchingly gripping his arm even though the black shadow is creeping up hers, eyes unblinkingly on his smoking white ones. The inside of his mouth is black as pitch, fangs sharp and white as his eyes, bright points in the dark of the theatre-esque room.

“ _Not yet_ ,” she mouths. Steve bares his teeth even further but she doesn’t move, and after a moment, he relents, yanking his arm out of her grip and looking back down at the stage, the black receding.

Barton stays tensed, watching them, before looking back down at the stage, too.

They’ve moved on to beating him, hitting him across the face with a baton to show the audience how quickly he heals, promising he heals much faster when he’s not kept ‘sedated’.

“ _The Asset functions on a steady, controlled supply of blood from our various blood banks. It has been known to kill our test vampires in training exercises with ease when ordered, and displays no primal, animal aggression with routine memory wipes. It also maintains full control of all necessary faculties, can feed and bathe when ordered no matter the wipe count, as well as has access to all combat training and programmed languages_.”

Barton frowns, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. “Are they…” he whispers.

“ _It has been essential in writing history as Hydra sees fit, and this is a very rare, very priceless opportunity for the next owner to shape the world to their bidding. You might all be asking yourselves why we would give such a priceless, valuable weapon up, and the answer is this: Hydra has succeeded, the world **is** ours, but while we enjoying holding the place of Queen, we grow tired of being the only truly, powerful piece on the game board. You may also ask yourselves, what of the Avengers? To which we ask: What **of** them? They come in time of great, dramatic need, open displays of power and upheaval, so answer us this: when have you ever heard our name whispered, let alone spoken?_ ”

Silence _._

 _“This is your chance to gain what we have taken, to use our greatest, most powerful tool against us, and we welcome your challenge. The Asset also holds a certain...charm, for those with interest in the occult, the supernatural, the otherworldly, for those that wish to test and understand it on a scientific level, of which data we will not be sharing. The creature before you is a true vampire, an inhuman - and no, not that kind - which makes its value that much greater. Bidding will start at twenty million U.S. dollars. We welcome any and all currency, but be sure to use a currency converter_.”

“They’re...auctioning him,” Barton says, staring, “They’re auctioning the Winter Soldier.” He hears something then, like a whine, a growl, and looks over at Steve again, blinking. He’s never going to get used to all that smoking, creeping black. It’s like liquid _and_ gas but isn’t really either.

“Steve, no,” Romanoff says, low and firm and quiet, “Leaders of world nations and countries are down there. You could start a world war. There are better ways to take them down and slaughtering them is not one of them.”

Steve stares down at the stage, at Bucky standing still under the light.

He can’t hear her anymore, her voice has gone fogged and muffled like Barton’s had the other day in the jet. All he can hear is the way he _can’t_ hear: the way he can’t hear Bucky’s heartbeat, the way he can’t hear Bucky growling low in his chest at something he doesn’t like, the way he can’t hear Bucky breathing even though he doesn’t need to, the way he can’t hear Bucky shifting, the little signs that he’s alive.

The way he can’t feel Bucky’s hand in his, smooth and neither warm nor cold, the way he can’t feel Bucky’s lips on his, arms around him, his smell home and comfort and _alive_ in Steve’s nose. The way he can’t see the look in Bucky’s eyes Bucky gets when Steve finally reaches down into him, when he looks open, vulnerable, _caring_.

All Steve can hear is the silence, Bucky’s silence, the way they’ve killed him again and turned him into nothing, pushed him down and shoved his face in the frozen river to drown his emotions, his love, his life, his screams, the same screams they recorded and used to... _market him_ for the highest _**bidder**_ -

They took him. They took Bucky. They took Bucky _they took Bucky they took Bucky they took Bucky they took Bucky they took Bucky they took Bucky theytookBuckytheytookBuckytheytookBuckytheytookBuckytheytookBuckytheytookBuckytheytookBuckytheytookBuckytheytookBuckytheytookBucky **theytookBuckytheytookBuckytheytookBuckytheytookBuckytheytookBuckytheytookBuckytheytookBucky-**_

_** THEY TOOK BUCKY ** _

The black swells up and swallows him whole.

Steve throws his head back and _SCREAMS_ , something that sounds angry and dying, all eight sharp teeth bared like a lion going for a throat. Barton jumps, all of his hair standing on end and eyes wide and Romanoff pulls out her gun and fires up into the rocky ceiling. A lot of the people below scream, shout, most start to run with the commotion while some just stare, eyes and mouths open wide, but between one moment and the next, the sound is cut off and gone and so is Steve, and then Romanoff sees him on stage.

Whatever the black shadows on him, surrounding him are, they surge up from _everywhere,_ swirl up in a large mass and destroy the main light just as he gets his arms around Bucky from behind, enveloping them both and disappearing into the resulting dark. She can just barely make out their silhouette and all of the... _tendrils_ shooting out of the shadows, stabbing running people through the legs, their stomachs, chests, heads, necks, anywhere they can reach. She can see the faint shine of blood in the dark, can see it _everywhere_.

She jumps down over the railing when she catches sight of who she’s had her eye on heading for the exit and runs straight for him, making sure to get in the way of the tendril aimed for his back, too. General Ross spares her a wide eyed glance as he goes, and she feels two slivers of relief: one for the tendril stopping just shy of her own back too close for comfort, close enough she could feel the _freezingcold_ of it through her suit, and two that her plan didn’t just get skewered in the middle of a literal underground, secret, Hydra auction.

She makes sure Ross gets out the door before turning back around and running towards all the dying screams. Barton seems to be trying to get people out the doors, but most of them are dying or dead. The whole room shakes and she barely stumbles as she runs to meet Barton when he signs her over, watching him take off. She tries to act as a shield for the last of the fleeing survivors, watching a little fascinatedly as the tendrils stop and sway, trying to dart around her.

Barton weaves through and jumps over the chairs, running full tilt and leaping up onto the stage, heading straight for the back then skidding a sharp right. He catches sight of his target and glances up, jumping and catching a weighted rope. He swings, flips, and lands, arrow drawn and aimed straight at his target’s face.

Rumlow skids to a stop, smirk sharp as he draws two knives. “Might as well enjoy it,” he comments.

Barton huffs then fires. Rumlow slices through the net rope with his serrated blades and comes at him swinging, so Barton tries the gooey stuff next.

-

Steve takes Bucky away, away from the dying breaths and sounds of fighting, the terrified, distant screams, takes him to some dark, quiet part of the world with one strained thought and lets the black fade. He squeezes Bucky close for a moment before making himself let go enough to round to Bucky’s front. He’s staring unseeingly, past Steve, through him. Steve reaches up and grips his cheeks gently, leaning in close until the tips of their noses just barely brush. “Buck?” he whispers, “Bucky? Can you hear me?”

Bucky doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe. Steve’s lower lip trembles a little and he bites it roughly, rough enough to bleed, then pauses, turning his head to look towards any heartbeat he can find. When he finds one, he looks to Bucky, tugging gently.

“Come with me?” he whispers. Bucky moves then, but it’s robotic, automatic, lifeless. Steve tries not to make a sound, sliding a hand down to hold Bucky’s and lead him through the dark of the snow stormed forest.

The sound of the heartbeat gets steadily closer, closer and closer until Steve’s eyes detect light, until he finds it slanting across snow from the window of a cabin nestled back against a curve of bare trees. He leads Bucky up to the front door, knocking with the side of his fist. It takes a minute, but then Steve can hear steps and low talking, and then the door opens.

It’s a man, about as tall as Steve with a wider build and a beard, hair a red-brown in the firelight behind him and making him a warm silhouette. Steve smells dog in the air, but it hasn’t made a ruckus yet.

“Hi,” Steve says, eyes glowing a soft red, “Can we come in?”

“S-sure…?” the man replies, eyes going a little dazed and slowly stepping aside. Steve gently tugs Bucky into the cabin, listening to the door close behind them while his eyes find the dog standing stiff and still in the hall ahead. A shepherd, middle aged if Steve had to guess. A long time friend of the owner, maybe.

“Can you shut your dog in the bathroom please? We’re allergic,” Steve says, making eye contact again. The man nods and tries ushering his dog away, taking hold of the collar and leading it when it just growls low and warning. Like Bucky did the other day.

Steve forces his thoughts to focus.

The man comes back when he’s finished and Steve smiles.

“Sleep,” he orders, catching the man with his free arm before he can hit the floor and dragging him over to the couch facing the fireplace. He sits and Bucky follows without asking, so Steve rolls up the man’s right sleeve and makes a cut in his arm before dipping down to drink from his fire-warm skin.

It tastes good, so much better than the blood packets, and after Steve’s sure he has enough, he lets go of the man’s arm and turns to Bucky, pushing his own sleeve up and digging his teeth into his forearm near the wrist, tearing at the skin a little. He lifts his wrist up to Bucky’s mouth and holds it there, just shy of touching, watching, waiting. He hears Bucky breathe then, one long, slow inhale, and _hopes_ -

Bucky slowly, slowly parts his mouth and leans forward the scant centimeters he needs, just as slowly, slightly hesitantly sinking his teeth into the marks Steve’s made. Steve’s lips curve up when he feels Bucky start to drink, relaxing a little. It’s something.

He keeps track of how much Bucky takes, partly focused on the feeling, and when he’s about to tell Bucky to stop, where Steve normally would, Bucky pulls his teeth out before he can, gently, slowly licking up the mess on Steve’s skin. Steve shudders a little and waits, lowering his arm and pushing his sleeve down after Bucky’s done. He reaches over to make sure the man’s arm is elevated before focusing back on Bucky, reaching up to gently frame his face again with his hands.

“Tastes better than the packets, huh,” Steve says quietly, rubbing Bucky’s cheekbones with his thumbs in slow, smooth circles. Bucky blinks once, slow, eyelids just a little lower. Steve slowly leans forward, keeping his movements obvious, and gently rests their foreheads together, keeping his eyes on Bucky. “I won’t hurt you,” he whispers, “I won’t hurt you, Bucky.” He wants to say more, but he doesn’t know what they did to him, what’s going _on_. His only clues are that Bucky smells like poison and he’s barely responding to anything. Maybe the fresh blood and quiet will help. It’d probably be better to not say anything at all, but Steve can’t quite get himself to do that.

Bucky blinks slowly again and Steve gently starts to tilt them, leaning down further and further until their shoulders are pressing into the couch’s back cushions.

“We can stay here for the night,” Steve says quietly. Bucky blinks again, just as slow as the first time, but Steve notices his eyelids droop a little bit.


	19. Here comes the sun, and you're in my arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please read the end notes after the chapter. I have a question I need feedback on regarding the rest of the chapters. Thanks!**

His eyes open, close, slowly open again. He stares into the fireplace, the embers barely smoking beneath the burnt logs among the ashes. They’re bright in all the shades of black and gray, bright red like-

 

 _Red eyes staring back at him from in the crowd, curved slightly like they’re smiling_ -

 

He closes his eyes tight, forcing everything blank.

There’s something pressed along the length of his back, something around his waist. The Soldier focuses on those sensations instead, taking stock.

His fingers twitch, his toes, he can hear embers crackling faintly in the fireplace, feel the bare heat of the extinguished fire still lingering. He can smell the burnt wood and ash, the life of whoever lives here, and a dog. There’s soft breath against the back of his neck in a rhythmic little gust across his skin.

Everything is working.

Where is he? Why is he here? Who has him?

Everything blurs when he tries to remember, shapes he can’t quite make out. There was gray, a lot of white, loud noises, pitch black, screaming-

 

 _Steve. I want to see Steve_.

 

 _Steve?_ he thinks hazily, subtly scenting the air, taking in a very slow, controlled inhale.

There’s hints of a scent- _Steve’s scent_ , his mind supplies, close, but not overwhelming like everything else, just potent enough to draw his attention, slowly turn his head a little before he catches himself and stops. He slowly opens his eyes, just as slowly tilting his face down to look at the- arms wrapped around his waist.

Long nails, pale white skin, just shy of being human, a leg tucked between his own like it belongs there.

“Steve,” his mind supplies again, says it aloud. The arms around his waist tighten a little.

“Buck?” Steve whispers against the back of his neck.

The Soldier slowly turns in the arms around him until he finds a face, the blurred picture of it clearing and resolving into focus. This is Steve.

Steve reaches up, slow and careful but not wary, and cups his cheek in a gentle palm. “Buck,” he breathes, leaning forward until their foreheads touch, “I was so scared,” he whispers. There’s sunlight above him coming down from somewhere beyond the top of the couch, makes the curved slopes of Steve’s hair light up gold.

Bucky reaches up and lightly, hesitantly touches his fingertips to them, then down to Steve’s cheek, then the rest of his palm there when he knows Steve’s real. “You found me,” he says quietly.

Steve curls closer, pressing their foreheads more firmly together. “I had to. I had to find you. The things they were doing, Buck.”

He lets his vision unfocus and his thoughts unspool, trying to lay out the parts. He was with Steve up until he wasn’t with Steve. There was red and yellow and so much gray, white everywhere, then barking- “There were dogs,” he says quietly, distractedly. The smell of fur, then chemicals, then outside, then a long time of nothing, filled by screeching and another blindingly bright light. There was talking and pain, then more talking, then arms around him and echoing screams, the smell of blood, and so much black. Steve was like a shark with blood in the water, seeking, devouring.

“Where they kept you?” Steve asks softly, pulling him out of his thoughts a fraction, reeling him in. Bucky nods a little and lets out a long breath. “There’s only one now,” Steve says, “His name is Rocky and he’s locked in the bedroom.”

Bucky blinks, eyes focusing back on Steve’s face. “Owner?”

“Asleep in the bedroom,” Steve answers, rubbing Bucky’s cheek gently with his thumb, “I left Romanoff and Barton and stole you away.”

And now they’re here, in a small cabin somewhere in some woods in some part of the world.

“I fed on the owner to try and heal you. How are you feeling?” Steve asks.

Bucky takes a moment to focus on it, feel. “Confused,” he settles on, “Tired.”

“We can stay here another night,” Steve suggests, keeping his voice down even though he doesn’t need to. It’s lulling, softens Bucky’s defenses. He is wary, but not of Steve. Steve barely brushes the tips of their noses together. “The owner can sleep.” They shouldn’t, but instead he asks-

“Are you sure?” whispers, doesn’t intend to say it but it comes out anyway.

“Yeah,” Steve whispers back, still rubbing Bucky’s cheek with his thumb, making Bucky’s eyelids droop, “I’ll tell him to take care of his dog, then go to sleep. Whatever you need.”

Bucky’s eyelids finish drooping shut and he lets out a slow breath, relaxing his muscles with it. It feels...good here. “Stay?” he asks, small and quiet.

“Forever,” Steve promises, ghosted across his lips. He’s said that before.

\-----

“So...that happened.”

Romanoff barely glances over at him while Rumlow gives a rude snort.

“I think I’m still in shock,” Barton continues, ignoring Rumlow, “He...killed people. Not that Captain America hasn’t killed people, but he... _slaughtered_ them. Stolen Captain America comic book reading childhood _over_.”

Rumlow rolls his eyes and Barton takes it personally. “No one asked you.”

Rumlow gives him a look so Barton gives him one back before heading closer to the front to lean his shoulder against the pilot doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. He keeps an eye on Rumlow but angles his mouth more towards Romanoff.

“You were right about Steve,” he says quietly, “What do you think we should do?”

“We’ll need help, or to figure out how he compels people so we can avoid it,” she answers.

“So, back to square one,” Barton surmises, “Well, one of them.” He glances up towards the ceiling windows, humming in thought. “Have any footage from last night you can send our friend?”

“Already compiling it,” she replies, glancing to him briefly before looking back out at the sky, “While we’re waiting…” She puts the jet on autopilot and stands and heads into the back, Barton following. “We have some questions for you,” she finishes, staring down at Rumlow, who stares back up, smirking around the gag between his teeth.

\-----

 _The room is dark past the stinging light from above, dark and full. He hears people, living things, their excited breaths and elevated heart rates, their hushed and whispered chatter. He can see them staring at him in greed and joy, anticipation and intrigue, some in cruel excitement. It’s all very far away, like mist slowly rolling by, except for the red eyes his are drawn to at the back, straight ahead. They curve like crescents when their eyes meet, like a joker’s smile_ -

 

He snaps awake, eyes open wide. Arms are still around him, a leg still between his own.

 _Steve_. He’s with Steve. The fire across the room is still out, but he can see eyes where embers would be burning, can feel the shiver down his spine his body wouldn’t let him feel in the dark room with the bright light-

The arms tighten around him and draw him back out of himself. He moves his hand up and gives one of them a light squeeze. “Bad dream?” Steve murmurs against the back of his shoulder.

The Soldier slides his hand up Steve’s arm, gripping and holding onto his bicep, sleeve bunching between his fingers. It seems to be answer enough because Steve just curls around him more, pressing his mouth to the top of Bucky’s shoulder and leaving it there. The contact is intimate, different from what he remembers of before...softer, less...demanding, of either of them. He doesn’t want Steve naked, though that is acceptable, just...this.

He keeps his hand on Steve’s arm, doesn’t tighten his grip, and yet Steve still feels like an anchor in a clouded snow storm he can’t see a foot through, held tight in the eye of the storm where the Soldier might be approaching something in the far direction of safe.

\--

They remove their presence from the cabin that evening, wipe the owner’s memories and slip out the front door into the forest, farther and farther until the light cast from the windows fades into black.

Steve stops after a little bit.

“I’m going to try something…” he trails off, closing his eyes. After a minute, they open again, hot white as burning stars.

The Soldier waits, watching.

Steve focuses, thinks of the quinjet and then Barton and Romanoff flicker into view, vision black fog around the edges, but he’s _there_ , without being all the way there. There’s a man tied up on one of the seats in the back- Rumlow, he realizes, it’s Rumlow. They’re talking, but Steve can’t figure out what they’re saying. It sounds...hollow, like he’s hearing it from the other end of a tunnel. He tries focusing _more_ -

“ _-and what, you’ll just go on your way with that freak Rogers and the asset? Oh, pardon me, **Barnes**. You know Rogers has lost it right? And the asset’s brains have been scrambled more times than **I** know about. You’d be better off killing’em both and bein’ done with it, in the long run.”_

Barton tenses further. _“We’re not going to kill our-”_

 _“ **Comrades?** ” _Rumlow cuts in with a mean smirk, _“Yeah, say that when they’ve both left you bleeding in the mud. Notice how the asset’s programming only goes haywire when Rogers is around? The only asses they care about are each other’s. The asset was scheduled to be decommissioned soon, anyway._ ”

Barton moves to gag Rumlow and Steve shifts his eyes to Romanoff, sees the shuttered, thoughtful look on her face, in her eyes. The way her body stills, almost as still as his, except for the slight sway it gives with each pump of her heart.

She and Barton move to the front of the jet and Steve shifts the angle with a thought.

 _“You know I hate to agree with him,”_ Barton says quietly, privately.

 _“Rogers and Barnes need to come in,”_ Romanoff says, just as quiet, _“If not for our sakes, then their own, as well as civilians.”_

 _“How we gonna lure them back?”_ Barton asks, _“We don’t know where they went.”_

 _“If we can’t find them on our own, we’ll call in our friend,”_ Romanoff returns, expression shifting briefly to something put upon, _“If we do, we talk them down.”_

Barton nods.

Steve watches them for a minute more before coming back to himself, blinking out into the night in front of him, eyes shifting to Bucky, still watching him. “They want to talk,” Steve reports, “They have Rumlow tied up in the jet. They were talking.”

Bucky’s eyes shift to the side. Steve desperately wants to know what he’s thinking.

“They are...red hair, and a man?” Bucky asks, looking back. Steve nods and Bucky’s eyes shift away again. Steve watches him think. “We need to go back?”

Steve considers it. “Not if we don’t want to.” Bucky looks back at him at that. “They found us taking down a Hydra base and joined. We don’t have to go back.” Steve doesn’t really want to, and Rumlow’s there.

Which of course means Bucky nods and says, “Can you take us back?”

Steve clenches his jaw but nods, closing his eyes and focusing while reaching for Bucky’s hand. He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to seeing so many stars behind his eyelids, beyond them.

\--

Barton catches movement out of the corner of his eye and blinks, stares, watches Rogers and Barnes... _emerge_ from the shadows, like melting in reverse, go from liquid to solid. He keeps staring, eyes a little wide, even after they’re all the way through.

Rumlow stiffens, eyes even wider than Barton’s. He works the gag off and opens his mouth-

Steve’s hands dart out, trying to protect Bucky from bullies-

Bullies?

 _A long...time ago_ , Bucky thinks. Yes, that’s right.

Steve’s eyes flare white and Rumlow’s lips move but Bucky can’t hear the words beneath Steve’s hands over his ears. Shadows slither up Rumlow’s bound arms from behind and layer over his mouth and his eyes go wide again. Steve’s eyes return to blue and his hands gently slip from Bucky’s ears.

“Steve,” Romanoff says.

“Romanoff,” Steve replies, eyes still on Rumlow.

“It’s time for you two to come in,” she says.

Steve turns his head a little towards her and hears her heartbeat speed up a bit. “What will you do with us?”

“We need to work as a group,” she answers, “You two working alone has only worked so far, and not at all last night. Hydra’s more spread out than we anticipated, and we need more resources. And, frankly, you’re a wild card that puts everyone at risk.” She turns and heads back into the cockpit while Barton moves over to Rumlow, tripling and tightening the gag after Steve’s shadows slither back into the darkness.

Steve moves up front to the cockpit door frame. “If I’m a wild card, why haven’t you turned me in?”

“Because I know what Ross will do to you if I do, and not what the Soldier will,” Romanoff answers, slanting a look over at him after a moment, “But I’m tempted.”

“I would get him back.”

Steve catches Romanoff’s faint flinch and watches her turn her head a little to find Bucky beside him, having crept up to his shoulder, eyes already on her and glowing softly. Steve hears a crackle but doesn’t see any sparks when he looks. The less everyone knows about their powers, or at least Bucky’s, the better. Steve’s still learning his own. What else can he do? What can _Bucky_ really do?

“What are you planning to do with him?” he asks, nodding his chin towards the back of the jet.

“Haven’t decided yet,” Barton answers instead. Steve turns to look at him and Barton stops a few feet away, crossing his arms. “Normally we’d take him to S.H.I.E.L.D. for holding and interrogation, but as it is, that’s not really an option. He hasn’t answered many of our questions yet either.”

Steve looks past him back to Rumlow, who’s already watching them warily, purple cloth between his clenched teeth. Steve turns fully, eyes glowing white as he walks towards him, shadows slithering their ways up the quinjet walls. Rumlow stiffens, eyes a little wide as they dart around to the shadows. “Leave it to me.”

Romanoff and Barton both give Steve’s back a sharp look, but then he’s gone, three feet past Barton’s boots and onward seemingly an empty, black void. Deafening silence... _radiates_ from it, the kind that sinks deep down past your bones when you think you’re alone, that raises the hair on the back of your arms and prickles up the back of your neck into the ends of your hair. Barton can feel cold coming from it, the same kind that enveloped him and Natasha when Steve transported them and the whole jet to the auction.

“Do you feel that?” Barton asks quietly.

“Not like you,” Barnes eventually replies.

Barton looks over.

Barnes looks...not tense, not relaxed, just...still. Neither happy nor upset, not really anything. He’s just...a stone pillar, a sentry waiting at the gateway to the abyss, but whether he’s about to walk into it, or waiting for someone, Barton doesn’t know. Is he waiting for Steve? The Steve Rogers Barnes barely knows, the one _he_ apparently doesn’t know at all, or someone else? Maybe the Steve ‘Bucky’ knew, or maybe the one the Winter Soldier knows. Barton himself is realizing just how little he knows Rogers, even though they’ve barely worked together as is, so he _would_ barely know him, but he thought he knew _Captain America_. He’s always been good at reading people, but the longer he’s with Rogers, the more it feels like he’s meeting a celebrity, thinking you know them because you can recite facts upon facts about them, then realizing they have more dimensions than what’s in your head, the facts you’ve learned, more unruly facets you never even considered and could never control. That they are as human as you are, and just as wholly unknowable, even when you think you do know them.

Is that what it’s like for Barnes? Is he as lost on the subject as the rest of them seem to be?

The black eventually shrinks after another seven minutes, shrinks and crawls back into the creases and corners of the jet until they can see the back of it again, and Steve standing in front of-

Rumlow’s still sitting, tied up, but his head is back and his mouth is open wide, a few, stray shadows skittering out of it and eyes staring all over the place, never really landing on one thing, never really seeming to _see_ anything. His chest is heaving large and quick like he’s run for miles.

“Learn anything?” Barton makes himself ask after swallowing, trying not to reach up for his own throat or shift away from all the dark corners, look as erratic as Rumlow does.

“Someone called Pierce is eager to get a growing project off the ground,” Steve answers, white smoke from his eyes petering out as they fade back to blue.

“Alexander Pierce?” Romanoff asks from the front, glancing back over her shoulder at them. Steve nods and her expression shifts in a way Steve can’t quite name, but knows isn’t good. “This just got harder.”

“Why?” Barton asks.

“Alexander Pierce is the former Secretary of Defense of the United States who now works as the Secretary of S.H.I.E.L.D., and is also a councilman of the World Security Council that oversees S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Romanoff replies.

“...Oh,” Barton says, gaze going far off while he thinks, “Yeah. That could be a problem.”

“I don’t care who he is,” Steve cuts in, “If he’s Hydra, he’s burning.”

“Sooo are we just slaughtering S.H.I.E.L.D.? Or dismantling it? Does anyone have a _good_ plan that doesn’t involve the mass murder of possible innocents?” Barton asks, looking between the three of them.

“We’re calling our Friend,” Romanoff decides, glancing back at them again.

\--

“ _Sir, you have an incoming call from a…’Death Spider’_.”

“C’mon, Jarvis, put a little more feeling into it when you get to use the nickname I spent so long choosing for her,” Tony replies, hands pausing the fine tuning tools he’s using while he looks skyward.

“ _As I recall, it took three minutes_ ,” Jarvis replies.

“Eh, tomato-tomahto. Patch her through,” Tony orders, bending back down to work the tip of one of the tools into a tight spot on a half constructed, metal cylinder. Might be a gear. He hasn’t decided yet. A holoscreen materializes to his left, shortly followed by Romanoff’s red hair in his periphery. “Heeey, how’s my favorite spy?”

“ _I’m not your favorite_ ,” Romanoff replies, “ _But we can discuss that later. It’s time.”_

Tony stops his work and straightens, looking over with a slow smirk. “ _Time_ , time?” Romanoff’s expression somehow flattens so Tony sets down his tools and throws up the five background screens he’s had running for the past three days. Or maybe it was five? Could’ve been ten. Time isn’t real when you’re working on advanced cybernetics and potentially world changing mechanics.

“ _Status?_ ”

“The backdoor into Ross’ network is still being cracked. I _neeeeeeed_ ,” he peers at the far right screen, reading off, “Nineteen more hours. Then we’ll have every dirty little secret he’s got stashed away. Remind you of anyone?” he adds with a smirk her way.

“ _Ross is not Fury_ ,” she replies.

“Definitely not. But, birds of a feather,” he say with a casual shrug.

“ _I’m surprised it’s taking this long_ ,” she comments just as casually, changing the subject.

“Only because the algorithm keeps changing _and_ it hops servers like a rabbit on heroine,” Tony gripes, “The challenge was fun until we hit sixteen hours.”

“ _Send me a message when you’ve gotten in. Also_ ,” she adds with a curve to one side of her lips, “ _I have your favorite_.”

Tony perks up, watches Romanoff turn and call towards the back of the jet and then there’s movement, legs getting closer, soon followed by a familiar, slim waist. Steve’s face appears down from the top left of the screen. “Rogers!”

“ _Tony_ ,” Steve returns, lips curling up.

“I never got to see the little blue number you were wearing before,” Tony teases.

“ _Still in my closet. Sorry_.”

“Although you aren’t, from what I hear. How’s Barnes?”

There’s more movement, another pair of legs and a wider pair of hips sidling up next to Rogers’, then Barnes’ face appears on screen. “ _Stark_ ,” he greets, low, almost a growl.

“ _Heeey_ , you remember me. Progress,” Tony quips.

Barnes gives him a look before rising out of frame. He and Rogers both head to the back and then a dialogue box pops up in the corner of Tony’s screen.

 

_We need to talk. Is this line secure?_

 

Tony glances to Romanoff before nodding.

 

_Abilities, compulsion, unstable. Sending data. Counter?_

 

A file attachment _pings_ softly to life in a new holoscreen and he drags his eyes from it back to her, nodding again. Romanoff gives a little finger wave before disconnecting the call and Tony opens the attachment. “Let’s see what we’ve got here…”

Tony blinks, stares, jaw dropping.

“ _Holy_ _**shit**_ -”

\--

“How are you feeling?” Steve murmurs as they sit back down.

“The memories are returning,” Bucky answers, and Steve sags in relief. He huffs a breath when he feels a hand settle on his thigh.

“I can tell,” he replies quietly, leaning into the touch. His eyes shift up to Rumlow.

His head has dropped forward, eyes vacant.

“Do you want to kill him?” A thumb gently rubs the outside of Steve’s thigh through his jeans.

“Do you?” Bucky returns.

Steve tilts his head until theirs press together. “I want to do things I shouldn’t want to do.”

Bucky turns his head a little against Steve’s, but it’s Other Bucky that says, ‘ _Maybe you should_.’

‘ _Isn’t that bad? It is bad_ ,’ Steve thinks.

Other Bucky steps up next to Rumlow, crouches down to peer up into his face, then looks back over. ‘ _Doesn’t he deserve it? He hurt me, helped capture and torture me. He turned me into a shell_.’

Steve drags his eyes up from Other Bucky back to Rumlow.

‘ _He hurt me, Steve_ ,’ Other Bucky whispers in his ear, blue peacoat in his periphery. He can feel the cold, the snow. ‘ _He put me on display_ -’

‘ _Like a toy, like Bucky was an object, a thing, something to be bought and sold and used before they threw him away_.’

Steve’s eyes glow.

 _He hurt Bucky_ -

Steve blinks and Barton’s in front of Rumlow, checking his pulse with two fingers pressed to the side of his neck, his wrist. “ _What the hell?_ ” Barton says quietly to himself, pulling his hands back and looking over, “What did you do?”

“Do?” Steve asks, staring.

“Yeah. He’s dead,” Barton replies.

Steve looks back to Rumlow.

He is. His heartbeat has stopped, a ticking clock come to an end. What Steve did during the interrogation shouldn’t have killed him, much as Steve wanted to.

“ _Rogers_.”

“I didn’t,” Steve answers immediately, swallowing a bit when Bucky gives his waist a squeeze-

Waist?

Steve leans back a little, checking.

Yes, that’s Bucky’s arm around him. When did it get there?

 _I lost time again_ , he thinks quietly in the privacy of his own head. He looks over at Bucky, who’s already watching him, _something_...in his eyes. _Does he know?_

“We got what we needed,” Romanoff says from the front, “I sent it to Stark.”

“The body?” Barton asks, slow in dragging his eyes away from Steve to her.

“No known relatives,” Romanoff replies, looking to Bucky, “Help him dump it.”

Bucky looks back, but otherwise doesn’t move. He only does when Romanoff lands the jet in the middle of an unknown forest half an hour later to help Barton get rid of Rumlow’s body, Steve watching from the ramp while Romanoff occasionally watches him.

\-----

_Two Days Later_

 

 

“Well, that didn’t go exactly to plan, but now we have some select determined buyers interested in the asset, enough to start a war between nations,” Strucker muses.

“Sir, General Ross is on the line,” an agent reports.

Strucker smiles. “Put him through. Did you find the journal?”

“We’re close, sir,” the agent replies.

“Very good.”

There’s steps then, hobbled and one foot dragging, and Strucker turns to look. Rumlow drags himself in, hand gripping his left arm and fingers broken at various angles.

“Sir,” he says, voice so rough and ragged and broken it’s nearly a whisper.

“Went about as expected, I assume,” Strucker observes, clinically detached.

Rumlow nods, the movement unnaturally jerky, giving his neck a slow roll with several, varying pops. “Planted the bugs.”

“Good,” Strucker says, tilting his head to the left, “Go recover. Our move is imminent.”

Rumlow smirks a little shakily, teeth sharp. “Yes, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please read this:**
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> Hi guys! Okay, so, I have a dilemma. The rest of this story is written, but Kay can't beta it right now because she's going through some tough things. So, would you all prefer I post the chapters as they are? Or wait until she can beta them? Please let me know. Thanks!


	20. I love you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Please read:** I've decided to post the rest of the chapters now, so keep a look out if you want to read them. I will replace them with the beta'd versions whenever Kay is able to do them.  <3 And edit this note whenever I do that so people can check back and know. One of the chapters is a sad alt ending.
> 
> SORRY. ALSO, NOTE: This chapter contains the vaguest reference to past non-con.

Things come back to him again, the recent things, the things before it. The past can stay where it lies for now, but he remembers New York and leaving it with Steve, the blood packets Steve left out for him, Hydra, Steve. Things flow in something like linear again, a timeline not as jumbled in confusing, nonsensical chaos. He doesn’t feel anything at first, but his anger, it seems, might have always been a slow burn. It is not the anger itself, that he feels commonly enough, but the rage is something else, a long lost lover he almost always meets in passing, a friend he and Steve share that Steve has visited more than he has. But now, now he is at its door and can feel its fires licking at the embers crackling in the hearth of his still heart, setting him slowly but surely ablaze, his dry timber burning, scorching the earth where he stands. He finds he wishes he had just knocked at rage’s door sooner, maybe he had and can’t remember because Hydra took it from him, but if he had managed it, Hydra would have been long dead and burned to ashes by now.

His eyes find Steve, snoozing into his shoulder, curled in on himself like he wants to be a held note instead of a whole song. But Bucky can hear his tune, can see it in the way his eyes shift beneath his lids that hide the unclouded summer sky of his eyes. This doll is living, this undead creature has a bleeding heart.

(“ _Bucky_ ,” it whispers; “ _Love_ ,” it calls to his own).

He reaches up, slow and careful so as not to wake Steve, and carefully brushes his bangs aside.

They are monsters, both of them, but his being calls back, and this monster feels-...

\-----

“Any news on Rogers?” Ross asks.

“Of a sort,” the agent replies- Smithes. He’s young, wearing black. One of the ones on loan from his associate. “Agent Rumlow hasn’t checked in in over ten hours. We’re assuming death.”

“Smart assumption,” Ross replies dryly, “Anything else?”

“We’ve made headway on the location of the serum’s source.”

Ross’ head turns. “What is it?”

Agent Smithes smiles. It’s always strange seeing a smirk like that on a young face. All the more reason for his men to look after their own. “We’ve found one of Erskine’s lost journals.”

Ross turns fully. “Take me to it.”

\-----

Steve feels it when the jet decelerates and blinks over at the cockpit. He stays seated until they touch down and the jet starts to cycle down.

“There’s a town a mile out called Leszno,” Romanoff says as she moves over to a compartment next to where the blood is kept, pulling out and changing into a different pair of boots, then shrugging on a jacket and twisting her hair up under a tight hat. Barton does the same, forgoing the hat for a pair of black sunglasses. She tosses hats at the both of them and Steve and Bucky catch them, then stare. “Bathroom break, boys,” she explains dryly, heading over and opening the back hatch, “Not all of us are undead immortals who don’t need to pee.”

“Would be a perk though,” Barton muses as the hatch lowers and early evening spills sunset colors inside, splashing up the walls and chasing shadows into corners, “You know how many sniper missions it would’ve come in handy on?”

“Yes,” Bucky says, checking over the hat and along the seams before pulling it on over his head.

Barton blinks back at him. “Oh. Right.”

Bucky gets up and Steve pulls on his own hat and follows, trailing him out of the jet and into the early evening sun.

The crowds unknowingly part for them as they move, a school of small fish parting for larger predators. Their clothes barely skim as they pass.

Romanoff leads them to a small restaurant somewhere near the edge of town, the third one they see. She slips inside with her arm looped through Barton’s and a warning look sent back their way over her shoulder. Steve hears her laugh as the door closes, loud and cheery like the light spilling out from around the wood, and then the door is shut, the light gone, and Steve lets his focus slide away from it as Bucky pulls him around the side of the building into a darkening alley. 

He pulls them close by the hips and leans in for a kiss, and Steve melts into it with a soft moan, leaning forward further and further until Bucky’s back hits the side of the building’s cement wall. The fronts of their hats bump and knock so Steve tilts his head further, deepening the kiss. It helps muffle his groan when Bucky slides his hands around to his lower back, then down further to grip his ass through his jeans. Bucky’s tongue is so soft and slick and wet where it slides against his own. Steve sucks on it and Bucky scrapes his sharp teeth down Steve’s lower lip. Steve’s missed this, missed the privacy, the intimacy, missed _Bucky_.

Bucky’s hands slowly drag up, one slipping back down beneath the back of his jeans and Steve groans lower at the feel of the cool leather against his skin, shuddering when Bucky’s fingers dip between his cheeks and press against his rim.

“They’re eating here,” Bucky whispers between kisses, “Take us somewhere.”

Steve does, barely has to think about it before he smells musty, stale air, wood, old paint. He barely spares a glance around the cabin before hauling Bucky closer, who guides them back by Steve’s hips, lips and tongue an intoxicating wet slide against his own. They keep going until Steve’s ass bumps into the edge of a table and Bucky lifts him up onto it and pushes him back, Steve twisting his fingers into the front of Bucky’s shirt to pull Bucky down with him. Bucky’s hands slide to his thighs and Steve parts them easy so Bucky can move closer and settle between them, bracing his left hand on the table next to Steve’s head to lean over him.

Steve finds Bucky’s tongue again, grips his arm with one hand and tangles the other’s fingers in Bucky’s hair, knocking his hat off. Steve lost his own at some point, he’s not sure when, but he’s too focused on the grind of Bucky’s hips against his to care.

“We haven’t- fed,” Steve manages between kisses. Bucky’s teeth tug at his lower lip before letting it slide away, then sucking on it.

“Don’t care,” Bucky growls, dragging claws down Steve’s thighs and probably shredding his jeans to hell. _Oh well_. “ _Out of these_ ,” he orders.

Steve hurries to comply, reaches down between them and tries to focus past Bucky’s mouth on his, past the messy kisses trailed down to his jaw, his neck, the sucking at his earlobe. He moans, finally getting his pants unbuttoned and unzipped and pushing them down. Bucky pulls away long enough to yank Steve’s boots off, one sock going and the other half pulled off, dangling past his toes. It comes the rest of the way off when Bucky yanks his pants down, pulling him a few inches down the table with it before Steve thinks enough to dig his nails into the wood, gouging out chunks with a rough _crunch_. And then Bucky’s there again, trailing sloppy kisses down his stomach until his mouth finds his cock.

Steve throws his head back with a hard _thunk_ against the table and a loud moan, groaning heavily when Bucky pushes his thighs up and tries to swallow him _whole_. Steve hears him gag, cough, barely gets his head up before Bucky’s trying again and _manages it_.

“ _Buck_ ,” Steve gasps, staring, curling his fingers into the wood. He can’t get hard, not really. The blood they’ve been drinking isn’t living, can’t help stimulate his body all the way like when it’s fresh, but Steve can still feel the pleasure of it, the sensations, can feel the heat curl low and enticing at the base of his spine even though he probably can’t come from this. He’s not sure. He’s never tried-

He sucks in a gasp when Bucky sucks _hard_.

But Bucky seems damn intent on _trying_. 

Steve watches his head bob, muscles jumping a little at the soft sweeps of Bucky’s hanging hair brushing over his skin, bites his lower lip at the glint of Bucky’s sharp teeth, feels them skim the sides of his cock and it makes his toes curl hard.

Bucky pushes Steve’s thighs closer to his stomach and pulls his mouth off his cock, dragging his tongue over to suck a hard kiss to Steve’s inner thigh before pushing his legs up further, almost bending him in half. Steve barely has time to adjust before he feels Bucky’s nose and mouth push between his cheeks and suck at his _rim_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Steve lets out loudly, shuddering at the feel of Bucky’s tongue nudging and prodding and licking while his fingers go through the tabletop up to the knuckles, fingers curling to grip the wood while he moans. His cheeks don’t feel hot, but he knows they would be if he were alive. He’s never felt this before, he doesn’t know what to- It’s strange, strange like the first time Bucky fucked him except for all of the ways it’s _different_ : Bucky’s tongue smaller, wetter, but the wet not thick like blood, his tongue _insistent_. “Buck, what-” Steve cuts off when Bucky’s tongue manages to start wiggling _inside_. Steve’s toes curl again while he sucks in more air he doesn’t need.

Bucky sucks at his rim and then pushes his tongue in further, pulling it out and then pressing back in, fucking him with it until he’s all the way inside. His tongue _curls_ and it feels so _strange_ , but so- _good_ , too, more good than strange the longer he does it.

Bucky pulls his tongue out after a few more minutes and Steve _whines_ , lifting his head from where it’s dropped back to the table to try and look. Bucky’s eyes find his and he lets go of Steve’s right thigh to bring his left hand to his mouth and bite the top of his gloved middle finger, tugging and pulling until his glove starts to slide off, eyes on Steve’s the whole time and fangs bright against the black as it slowly gives way to silver. Steve shudders when Bucky lets the glove drop from between his teeth and slowly slides the metal hand up his inner thigh, sucking in a breath when it dips between his cheeks. Bucky draws a finger up the center of him, over his wet hole to his balls, up the length of his cock to the tip and then just as slowly back down. When it reaches his hole again, it circles, torturously slow, makes his toes curl, and then slowly starts to push inside.

Steve drops his head back with a heavy groan and spreads his legs wider while he grips the table. Bucky draws his finger back out for a moment and then pushes it back in and it goes easier, slicker, goes all the way until Steve feels Bucky’s knuckles press against his ass and then his finger _curls_ -

Steve’s back arches on a gasp as pleasure shoots up his spine, throughout his body from that one point like before. It’s a little dulled, but enough to have the wood cracking under the strain of his grip and that hot pleasure at the base of his spine coiling tighter. Bucky does it again and then mercilessly _rubs_ that spot and Steve feels like he’s going _mad_ -

He comes with a sharp whine, cock giving a twitch as his body tenses, toes curling sharp. He’s barely aware of the wood coming up off the table as he pulls, letting it drop and roughly gripping the sides of the table instead. He shakes through the aftershocks with a long, loud moan, dropping to the table and pulling in a long breath when they finally start to ebb.

He sits up as Bucky gets back to his feet, glove back on his left hand, and reaches forward, pulls him close by the front of his shirt and wraps his legs around Bucky’s waist and kisses him deep. He can taste himself on Bucky’s tongue, a light taste, something almost sweet, and Steve groans while wrapping an arm around Bucky’s back, sucking on his tongue like he’s desperate and trying to keep Bucky close long enough to get his fill. He’ll never have his fill. God, he could do this for decades and never get tired.

Bucky’s gloved fingers card smoothly through his hair, grip the side of his neck, and Steve melts under the touches, the affection, sighing softly through his nose.

“I wanna fuck you,” Steve whispers after he pulls away, sucking on Bucky’s lower lip and dragging his teeth across it before looking up.

Bucky looks back, shakes his head a little and tugs him closer. “I don’t want you to yet,” he says quietly, sliding his hand up Steve’s neck to cup his cheek, rubbing his thumb over it, eyes dropping from Steve’s to follow the motion of it.

Steve watches him for a moment and swallows, can’t help pulling him a little closer. “Okay,” he replies, just as quiet. Bucky’s eyes shift back up to his and Steve tries to smile, turning his head to press a kiss to Bucky’s thumb. “Can I...do something else?” he asks, looking back up. 

Bucky nods so Steve lets go, just long enough to scoot off the table. Bucky steps back to give him room and then Steve gently tugs him down to the floor, helps Bucky get his clothes off before pulling off his own shirt and dropping it aside. He lays down next to Bucky, naked, skin to skin on a dusty floor he barely registers because there’s so much of Bucky to take up his attention: the loose strands of his hair that shift at Bucky’s slightest movement, the long stretch of pale skin, too pale to be living, but not quite enough to be dead. He looks like marble, the pale pallor trapped between the white and black. 

Steve keeps himself propped up on his elbow and watches his hand slowly slide down Bucky’s sternum, letting Bucky shift it to the side with a gentle grip on his wrist, off center. Bucky relaxes again so Steve keeps going, down over the gentle curve of his chest, the edge of his ribcage, over the ridges of his stomach muscles and down to his hipbone. Steve gently rubs his thumb over the peak of it, brings his hand to his mouth to press a kiss to the pad of his thumb and then lowering it back to Bucky’s hip, rubbing gently again. He looks up at Bucky, whose eyes are soft, that vulnerable Steve missed, and Steve lowers his head when Bucky gently grips the side of his neck and pulls him down for a kiss, so slow and...sensual, it makes Steve’s toes curl and his grip tighten a little on Bucky’s hip.

“I love you,” Steve whispers when they part. 

Bucky slides his hand up to his jaw and brushes his thumb along Steve’s lower lip. “I love you,” he says quietly, and Steve can’t help dipping down the few inches to kiss him again. His chest is full of it, that feeling, like pressure, a balloon, a great swelling in his heart that almost makes it feel like it could start beating again. It fills past his heart, down to the butterflies in his stomach, up to the pleasure in his head, all the way to the tips of his fingers on the floor and Bucky’s hip, down to his toes still curled against the floor in the dust.

 _I love you_ , Steve thinks, softly, quietly, loudly, for himself, for Bucky, and for the whole universe to know, _I love you._

\--

“Are you sure we should’ve left the dogs by themselves?” Barton asks before taking a bite of his Bigos, eyebrows shooting up. He shovels another forkful into his mouth before he’s even halfway through chewing the first.

“You worry too much, dear,” Romanoff replies over the lip of her wine glass, “They’re trained enough, they won’t run off. They can occupy themselves. Might get on the furniture a little, but-” she shrugs. _What can you do_.

Barton shrugs back, a third of his meal already gone. “Get any well wishes from our friends? I know a few wanted to tag along.”

“Some. One sent me a selfie this morning,” she teases while leaning in close with a smile, conspiritorial, taking a bite of her own meal. It really is very good.

“You’ll have to show me later,” he replies with his own smile, acutely aware of all the dinner chatter around them and the size of the room. There’s enough space to maneuver, but it’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel if they run into any serious trouble.

Romanoff hums an agreement, lips still playfully curled. She’s amazing at what she does. He could watch her all night.

He orders dessert just to push it and because he’s an _absolute masochist_. Her eyes don’t glint but her lips curl up just a fraction sharper. Those scarce centimeters are a dangerous knife’s edge, but it’s worth it, he thinks.

\--

Rogers and Barnes aren’t outside the restaurant when they leave, nor the quinjet when they get back, which gives them the perfect opportunity to watch Stark’s video message. Or hear it, in Barton’s case, since he’s on materializing-from-fuckin’-shadows duty.

There are worse things.

“ _So, I’ve got good news and bad news_ ,” Stark’s voice starts from behind him, a little tinny on Natasha’s cellphone speaker, “ _Good news is I’ve isolated the frequency range of Rogers’ scary, spine chilling screaming and it’s - you’re not going to believe this - like bats!_ ” 

Barton’s head nearly whips around in his excitement. Stark sounds like he shares the sentiment. _Bats!_

“ _Bad news is, I don’t know if that’s the same frequency as their compulsion and, I’ll be honest, I tested it out all throughout the Tower and none of my employees, including myself, experienced any change in behavior as a result. Maybe they need eye contact? Something about gazing into your soul?_ ” Stark ponders, “ _Or in this case, your neural synapses? Neural pathways? If that’s the case, I can’t help without some raw data. In better news_ ,” Stark continues, “ _I finally cracked into Ross’ network and ho’ **boy** the dirty military secrets I could tell you. But that’s another beast for a different day. Unfortunately, I’ve found very little that’s juicy and pertaining to our two sparkly friends, but! He did apparently get something new and exciting recently, something that probably isn’t good or exciting for us. So, you all keep an eye out while I dig into that. That’s all. Give the sparkle twins my love! Mwuah!_ ” Stark blows a kiss at the screen and the video ends, stuck on that final frame.

“I’m not sure I want to know what makes _Ross_ excited,” Barton groans, because he can just _feel_ this mission heading for a cliff at moch sixty like a derailed train, he can _feel it_. His Disaster Detector ( _Daredevil would hate the acronym_ ) is usually right. Very unfortunately, usually right.

“Whatever it is, Hydra probably brought it to him,” Natasha replies.

“Which means it’s already bad,” he sighs.

She doesn’t reply to that, but she doesn’t need to.

\-----

“Is this it?” Ross demands.

“Yes,” Agent Smithes replies, eyes on the viewing window. They set up the underground interrogation room as a small study. A middle aged woman with graying, sandy hair pulled back into a tight bun is hunched over the old brown journal, metal of the table washed out to a dull gray under the lights. Her fingers are spindly, precise, like a black widow’s legs, carefully plucking at and turning the aged yellow pages, the other hand scribbling over her yellow notepad. “It’s being translated as quickly as humanly possible.”

“The fate of the free world might lie in that journal,” Ross says.

Agent Smithes smiles. “That’s what we’re counting on.”

They wait a while, an hour, it feels like, and then the woman straightens, back as stiff as the metal chair behind her. Her eyes narrow, then look up sharply. Nothing about her is soft, even the skin stretched across her face looks pulled as taut as her hair. The light hits the corners of her glasses frames and makes them shine.

“ _We might have something_ ,” her voice comes over the speakers, eerily soft and just as spindly as her spider’s fingers. It sends a small shiver down Ross’ spine that he’ll never admit to. “ _The letter ‘D’ is repeated twice in reference to the serum formula_ ,” she continues, looking back at the journal, “ _It’s placing is that of an ingredient, but it is the only one with a capital letter. Either it is a letter to replace a material name, or_ ,” she looks up, “ _It **is** a name_.”

Agent Smithes straightens at his side.

“A name?” Ross asks.

“ _We are in the business of the supernatural_ ,” the woman replies, so dry and flat he’s not wholly sure she’s being sarcastic.

“He’s real,” Agent Smithes breathes, eyes wide, and pulls out a cellphone, “I will report it immediately,” he adds louder.

Ross looks over sharply. “ _Who?”_ he demands, “ _What haven’t I been told?_ ”

\-----

Bucky gently slides his fingers back through Steve’s hair, combs his bangs off of his face. He looks peaceful like this, dozing and soft, as safe as they ever get, lost somewhere in the world with the two of them being the only ones who know where they are (and sometimes, not even that). It makes him feel how Steve looks, the feeling spreading out from his chest where Steve’s cheek rests, all the way throughout all of his limbs, minus the one he’s missing. It’s a dangerous feeling, this complacency, but he won’t deny it, not just yet. The moonlight is caressing Steve’s face, turning his skin the same glowing shade. Bucky watches him sleep.

‘ _It’s time_ ,’ whispers the deep voice after a time, echoing through his head. Steve shifts on his chest, eyes opening and head tilting up. Their eyes meet and Bucky’s stomach feels like it clenches around a black pit.

“We have to go,” Steve whispers, still watching him. Steve opens his mouth, closes it. “I have to go.”

Bucky carefully combs his sharp nails through Steve’s soft hair while Steve’s eyes slide closed, tense before it all suddenly melts away, a false pretense. “I will go where you go,” Bucky promises, quiet but firm, because even the Soldier seems set. This is agreeable.

Steve looks up at him again, looks like he would be on the verge of tears if he could cry.

Bucky’s not sure if the cause is good or bad.

Steve takes hold of his hand and presses one kiss to every finger.

\--

“Where are we going?” Bucky asks.

Steve stares out into the dark of the cabin. Bucky follows his gaze and for the briefest moment, sees red eyes staring back. He tenses, eyes widening a fraction, but they’re not there. It takes a moment before Steve whispers, “The future.”

Bucky keeps his eyes fixed on the darkness. The way Steve says it, it sounds like he’s remembering, maybe remembering something Bucky should too?

Steve holds his hand when they get swallowed up by the black and spit back out. Bucky’s not sure if Steve’s holding his hand for himself, or him. It reminds him of the way the words Steve said made him feel, the words he himself said.

“ _I love you_.”

He’d said them almost without thought, without using his brain at all, but he felt a pull in his chest, a warmth he’s been feeling for weeks in the small moments: when he’s holding Steve while they feed, when they’re fucking, when Steve smiles at him, when he catches Steve sleeping and watches for a few minutes. He doesn’t know the definition for love, but the emotion, something to feel and see and hear without full comprehension- Steve is incomprehensible, running towards danger instead of away, treating the asset as a person and not a weapon. Steve is the warmest thing he’s touched since coming out of cryo, even though he is not physically warm.

Love, he thinks, is each moment Steve is here with him, touching him like he is sacred and looking at him like he is beyond the way he shreds targets open with his nails, tears their throats out with his teeth, slaughters innocents at a command. Love is the feeling that Steve values him beyond the violence he can do, the pain and tragedy he is made of, and the possibility of death at his hands. Love is Steve seeing him and seeing his various other possibilities, while fully embracing that he is made of the things that people fear, that people shrink away from, that those full of cruel intentions and ambitions have used. Steve looks at him like there is a person behind his eyes, and the asset wants to be that; Bucky wants to be that.

Barton tenses suddenly in the cockpit, arm muscles pronounced with it and back ramrod straight. He slowly turns in his seat, staring when his eyes find them, not quite blank, but not wholly shocked. “Some noise. Hand gestures. Arm waving. _Something_ ,” he stresses desperately, “I’d like to not have what does me in be you two incapable of making any _noise_.”

Steve ducks his head a little, lips twitching before he sobers. “I need to go somewhere.”

“Where?” Romanoff asks, looking back.

“I made a promise,” Steve says instead.

“To who?” Barton asks, raising an eyebrow, “Unless you’ve been chatting with an invisible friend, we haven’t exactly run into anyone you’d _want_ to make a promise to.”

Steve hesitates. “I don’t know, but I get the feeling he doesn’t like having his deals gone back on.”

Barton frowns, looking to Romanoff.

She turns in her chair. “Are you having more auditory hallucinations?”

Steve pauses, then leans forward a little, eyes glowing a soft red. Bucky grips his shoulder and gives it a squeeze and then red fades.

“It wasn’t a hallucination,” Steve replies evenly.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” she returns, raising her own eyebrow.

Steve stiffens.

“I’ve heard the voice too,” Bucky speaks up quietly. Romanoff’s eyes gradually shift to him. “It’s deep, accented, has helped, but I didn’t know this was the price.” He looks over at Steve, who guiltily looks away, then locks his jaw and looks back.

“I had to get you out of there,” Steve almost grits out, “I couldn’t- I couldn’t let them do those things to you again, Buck.” Steve’s anger melts away into helplessness, and Bucky reaches up to cup his cheek and turn his face away from Romanoff and Barton, doesn’t like them seeing Steve so open and vulnerable. Steve curves into the motion, away from the others, and turns his head enough to press a kiss to Bucky’s glove where they can’t see. Steve’s gentle, like a giant cat, but just as temperamental and even more dangerous. If he had a tail, Bucky’s pretty sure it would’ve been lashing only just seconds ago. He is no longer made for humans.

“So…you two have been hearing a voice,” Barton says after a few moments.

Bucky looks back.

“And whatever deal Steve made, his end of it is going to where this voice is,” Barton finishes.

Bucky nods and Barton looks to Romanoff again, who’s still watching Steve. Bucky feels the useless urge to hide him from her. Steve is dangerous to them, but they are just as dangerous to him.

Barton leans back in his seat again, lacing his fingers behind his head and frowning up at the cockpit’s ceiling window. “What are the odds that Hydra knows about it?” he asks thoughtfully.

“At this point?” Romanoff replies a little dryly. Barton huffs a breath, quirking a smile. She finally drags her eyes from Steve and looks out the windows in thought. “If they show up, I guess we’ll know for sure.”

Barton hums an agreement, pressing his lips together. “Call our Friend?”

Romanoff turns in her seat and pulls her phone out, seemingly casual, but the Soldier can see the tension in her shoulders. She raises the phone to her ear. “Stop,” she says after the dial tone on the other end stops and that man from before - Stark - starts speaking. His voice cuts off mid-strange greeting. “I’m turning on the tracker in this phone. I need you to suit up and meet us where it stops.” She turns her head to look back at him, and the asset watches her. “Bring some party favors.” She hangs up, tapping at her phone a few times before pocketing it again.

Steve lifts his head and Bucky looks back, sees his eyes are completely white and smoking at the edges. Steve turns a bit, looking towards the left of the jet. “ _We need to go that way_ ,” he says, raising an arm and pointing, that- deep, velvety voice from their heads beneath his own, double toning it. Barton and Romanoff look back sharply and then Romanoff reaches for the steering handles, turning off the autopilot. The jet shifts to change course and Bucky looks back to Steve.

“Who are you?” he asks, quiet and low and dark, a warning.

Steve slowly turns his head to look at him, the white of his eyes flaring red for a moment. “ _You will learn soon enough_ ,” the deep voice replies alone, unhurried from Steve’s mouth, and then the white fades from Steve’s eyes and Steve blinks, closing his eyes and reaching up to press the bottom of his palm to the side of his forehead. “That was uncomfortable,” he mutters, his voice his own and by itself. It doesn’t make Bucky relax, but it’s better than hearing Steve and _not_ -Steve coming out of his mouth.

Bucky cups his cheek again and Steve relaxes a bit, leans into it a little. His eyes open but he keeps them down, looking like he’s searching for something.

“Steve,” Bucky says quietly. Steve looks up. Bucky rubs his thumb gently over his cheek and Steve’s expression gradually clears, relaxes with the rest of him, and he leans forward, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s waist.

“Buck,” he says softly, almost a whisper against the side of his throat. Bucky reaches up and wraps an arm around his back and the other across his shoulders, glancing over at Barton’s staring before shifting his eyes up to the quinjet’s dark ceiling. He tightens his hold on Steve, glaring into the nearest shadow he can see, especially when he thinks he sees a flash of crescent red eyes in the darkest depth.

They spend the ride quiet, the tension increasing a little every time Steve tells them to change direction from where he and Bucky are sitting in the back of the jet. His voice doesn’t double tone again, and his eyes don’t glow, but he does frown a little, looking some cross between confused and frustrated. Bucky imagines _he_ doesn’t like it either.

\-----

“Well, it looks like the rumors have been confirmed,” Strucker says, mostly to himself, but to his associate as well. He gives his wine glass another swirl, watching the deep red of the wine move in another smooth arc while thinking. He adjusts his monocle a fraction with smooth leather, gloved fingers.

“ _A letter is not confirmation of anything_ ,” Alexander Pierce replies, wine glass untouched on the other end of the long, oval glass table. It’s more for show, anyway. “ _But it is a step in the right direction. Any progress on the source?_ ”

“Not as of yet,” Strucker nearly sighs, raising his glass to take a sip, “It has eluded us for nearly a century and continues to do so. Not even Herr Schmidt determined its location. We’ve dug up every piece of lore and artifact we could find, but it seems the location is a Bermuda Triangle, hidden and shrouded. Your end?”

Pierce leans back a little more in his seat. “ _The same. It’s proving more difficult to find than the Lost Arc_.” He leans an elbow on an armrest, bringing a couple aged fingers up to tap at his lower lip. “ _What about Agent Rumlow? You said he’s been different since his run in with Rogers._ ”

Strucker leans back in his own chair. “Yes. His abilities seem to have heightened. Where before he had almost none to speak of outside of some enhancements, minor, in comparison to the asset, now it seems he has some influence over the shadows as Captain Rogers does, and his strength has excelled. He has, however, been increasingly erratic, more so than the asset’s less than finer moments. It is difficult to get him to sit still and sedatives don’t work.” He waves a hand as if dismissing it away. “He kills those who openly physically oppose him with a manic smile on his face. He is almost the ideal soldier of Hydra. Almost.”

“ _So...don’t_.”

Strucker frowns. “‘Don’t’?”

Pierce leans forward, elbows on his thighs and blue eyes focused. It has always been a bit of a quiet thrill, how much he looks like Captain Rogers. Not as much now, but most definitely in his youth. Still, even in his age, there are similarities, especially in his eyes. The asset was docile enough with him in some ways, less so in others.

“ _Don’t restrain him_ ,” Pierce calmly clarifies, “ _Maybe the dog can sniff out the source and lead us to it. He is, after all, more connected to it now_.”

Strucker hums in thought, glancing to the side for a moment before looking back, a smirk forming. They’d tried testing a connection once Rumlow was stable enough. They didn’t get any results, but that could have been because the door on the other side was being held closed. Connections, as it were, are two way streets, and they aren’t wholly sure how to force this one open just yet.

“I did have a tracking collar in the works for the asset, something that was intended for your use.” 

Pierce’s smile widens a bit. “ _Then put it to use_.”

“I will keep you apprised,” Strucker returns as he stands.

“ _I look forward to it_ ,” Secretary Pierce replies, ending the call. His form gradually disappears from the tips of his hair to the soles of his shoes, hologram gone and leaving nothing but an empty chair and half a glass of deep, red wine.

Strucker finds Agent Rumlow pacing in the fourth sublevel, exactly like a dog, or maybe a wolf or tiger would be more appropriate? His ears have gotten a little pointier since Strucker last saw him, too, along with his gritted teeth.

He glances down to the shadows rippling about Rumlow’s feet like a puddle disturbed and raises an eyebrow, looking back up. 

Interesting.

“Agent Rumlow,” he greets, coming to a stop at the weight room’s doorway. A few of the weights are laying haphazard about the floor, a bar askew and a dent in the cement well. “Feeling restless?”

“I can’t get the voices out of my head,” Rumlow grits out, voice still a bit damaged and rough. If it hasn’t healed better than that by now, Rogers may have damaged it permanently.

“Voices?” Strucker asks, adrenaline starting up. That’s a new change as well, an improvement.

“They’re restless, _writhing_. I don’t know how to describe it,” Rumlow replies, “It’s exhilarating and maddening and I gotta move, just wanna tear something _**apart.**_ ”

Strucker watches him pace for a minute in thought, hands behind his back. “Can you track the voices to their source?”

“North by North-East,” Rumlow replies after a pause, feet never once stopping, “‘Hundred and fifty miles, give or take a few.”

Strucker straightens, covering his surprise. _The same direction Rogers is going_ , he observes.

Rumlow’s boots come to a _screeched_ stop on the shined cement and he finally looks at him, eyes mad and crazed and intent.

 _Perfect_ , Strucker observes, _Useful_.

“Point and shoot me,” Rumlow says, “I won’t put up a fuss like the asset did.”

Strucker nods. “Then go get ready,” he replies, “We move at twenty-two hundred hours.”

Rumlow smirks for the first time since the last agent got his elbow wrenched backwards and takes off with a, “ _Yes, sir_.”

\-----

Barton frowns up at the dark clouds that have been gathering overhead for the past hour. He’s been expecting some lightning or thunder, but so far it’s been qui-

There’s a loud _**CRACK**_ that shakes the jet and sky and he jumps, all his hair standing on end while he scrambles for his hearing aids, adjusting the input. “Storm finally engaging ahead,” he reports grumpily.

It’s another forty minutes before Romanoff reports, “Fog ahead. Is this going to be a problem?” She glances back.

“No,” Steve answers softly after pulling his mouth off a blood packet, “He doesn’t like uninvited guests, but we’re expected. Keep flying straight.”

Barton glances back at that but Romanoff keeps piloting the jet forward. True enough, a few minutes after they fly into the huge mass of fog, it gives way and there’s land ahead, the end tip of a continent shrouded in shadows, almost-black trees and grass and sharp outcroppings of rock. Towards the end of the tip at the end of a long trail parting the dark trees is a castle, set right against the ocean’s curving shore. An actual _castle_.

“Interesting,” Romanoff observes, already decelerating the jet. Barton points down and she follows it to a place to land, easing them lower. The jet hits ground with a low, shaking _thump_ in a curving meadow a fair distance from the castle and then powers down.

It’s quiet for a moment.

“Should we-...should we grab some crosses and stakes, or something?” Barton asks uncertainly.

“Like you have those in your quiver,” Romanoff quips, standing and heading to the back.

Barton shrugs before getting up to follow. “Maybe I should start.”

\-----

“How are the preparations?” Strucker asks, heading down the hall, the rows of overhead lights highlighting his close cropped hair before delving it into shadows again in the in between.

“Agent Smithes has reported that General Ross is just finishing gathering his own forces,” Agent Desken reports as he keeps stride, “Ms. Underwood has been sent back to headquarters and Agent Rumlow has been fitted with the collar. Our forces are ready and gathered in the sub-bay and hangars.”

“Very good,” Strucker returns. He stops long enough to open the reinforced steel door at the end of the hall and steps out into the bay, stopping at the metal railing just ahead to overlook the forces.

Three submarines, fifty submersibles, each with their red logo emblazoned on the side, a thousand agents ready to fight and die for Hydra down here alone. 

He takes in a deep breath of salt water and metal and lets it out on a slow exhale.

“Let’s proceed,” he orders, turning and stepping down the stone steps to head for the middle submarine, Agent Desken following in his wake with a, “Yes, sir.”


	21. Welcome

They follow Steve out the jet since he seems to know where they’re going, eyes on the dark, surrounding forest. The trees look old, their branches long and weighted, their trunks wide, thick and thin leaves clustering along the arms even though it’s still Winter. There’s low hoots of an owl echoing through the canopies, a few golden eyes watching them make their way along the path. But it’s silent, utterly silent save for the sounds of Barton and Romanoff’s quiet footsteps on the packed dirt, eerily so.

“Well, this is creepy,” Barton mutters, keeping one hand close to the gun in his thigh holster and the small crossbow in the other, eyes shifting from one side of the path to the other. Romanoff keeps scanning the area and doesn’t utter a word.

It takes about half an hour to reach the end of the path and the start of an actual _mote_ connected to the ocean. A drawbridge is already down and Steve leads them across the wide sections of wood - that don’t make any sound either - with barely any hesitation, reaching over to take Bucky’s hand. 

Bucky gives it a squeeze but keeps his eyes ahead and ears open. He’s heard quiet movement since they got off the jet, not much, but a shift here and there. He only knows it’s not animals because there’s no heartbeat. He does pan his eyes up the formidable height of the castle though, taking in its smooth, angled roofs, the many sharp and pointed towers, gargoyles, and decorations. He knows they were invited and he’s not as well versed in mannerisms now as he might have been before Hydra, but none of this looks inviting. It looks the opposite, from the large, cracked stones that make up the towering walls, the jagged points and snarling gargoyles and beasts, to the storm clouds still looming overhead. They still look like they’re promising to spill lightning and world ripping hurricanes than a drop of rain.

They cross the bridge into a stone courtyard, veering wide around a huge fountain in the middle. There’s a dark metal sculpted woman weeping over a large vase as she pours water into the pool, a large, winged beast of some sort half-turned towards her from behind. They all glance at it but keep walking, and as soon as they reach the first of the low steps leading up to the doors, both of the double doors swing open on large, creaking hinges, snarling gargoyle faces aiming away from them towards each other.

Steve pauses briefly, they all do, until there’s a whisper on the light breeze from inside that makes Barton’s fingers twitch and Romanoff’s hands inch closer to her guns. Steve starts walking and they all follow, trailing the whisper inside.

The doors creak closed behind them and they all turn to look. Barton looks back ahead and stills at the two pairs of animal night eyes staring his way. A literal fire torch lights up on the wall to his left, then another and another until Rogers’ and Barnes’ eyes go from reflective gasoline back to mostly human, save for a slight shift in the firelight at the corners of their irises when they move.

“Let’s go,” Steve says quietly, turning back forward to start down the long hall.

“No, yeah, sure, let’s not talk about the ghost torches lighting on their own,” Barton mutters, eyes darting around. He frowns when one hall he looks down as they pass has a...writhing hallway in the blackest shadows, an...undulation that never stops roiling. Two halls past that one and he catches sight of a silhouette down towards the opposite end, a little past the gap of gloomy light coming in through a stained glass window separating too long stretches of shadow. It’s on the other side of the gap of light, furthest away. 

Barton stares, hands finally coming to settle on his crossbow and gun.

The silhouette is still as a statue, thin arms out a little ways from its narrow body and feet planted almost shoulder width apart. 

Barton narrows his eyes.

It looks like whatever- _who_ ever it is is bald, and is only wearing loose pants that cut off just below their knees.

He can just make out two red slits forming where the eyes would be. It raises its head and he tenses as it takes off at a dead _run_ , streaking through the light and then disappearing as soon as it hits shadow- 

Red eyes blur as sharp teeth _snap_ a hair’s breath from his nose just as he draws his gun and fires-

It’s gone, disappeared between one second and the next and Barton stares, eyes wide and a light sweat prickling along his forehead. He can still smell its breath, like the dead and decaying of a slaughtered battlefield while his heart tries to beat out of his damn chest, eyes darting wild.

“ _Barton!_ ” Romanoff says sharp and low.

He swallows and slowly drags his eyes over. Her guns are drawn and Rogers and Barnes have taken up a small perimeter around him, eyes scanning the halls. Barton relaxes a fraction.

“ _My apologies_ ,” comes a deep and, yes, apparently _velvety_ voice echoing from all over, “ _Some of my children are quite excited and wanted to play. We don’t get visitors often. Please, proceed at your leisure_.”

“He can come to us any time he wants,” Romanoff observes quietly, lowering her gun but not holstering it.

Barton swallows again and does the same thing, trying to slow his breathing as they start walking again. He makes himself focus, because otherwise he might lose his shit and, damn it, it’s too early for that.

Eventually, after what feels like an hour but is probably only about fifteen minutes, they reach another set of double doors wider than the first ones that creak open into a large, wide room. There’s widows running the length of the right side, stained glass that they can just make out the ocean through various depictions of saints and angels and praying men. Straight ahead there’s a man with long, snow white hair sitting in an overlarge, spikey, extravagant throne, seated below the largest stained glass window in the room displaying the battle between the archangel Michael and Lucifer, splayed at his feet and flaming sword raised. The flames are dim with the gloom outside, but Barton’s sure it’s a sight when the sun comes through, if it ever comes through.

“Was this a church?” he mutters.

“My family was very religious,” the deep voice mutters, sending a shudder rolling down his spine. It’s in the room now, in person, but it still echoes everywhere.

The man stands, languid though not slow. His hair is pulled back but trails over his shoulder, stark against the black of his cape which _slinks_ off of the end of the throne chair to the floor where Thor’s would have billowed. He’s wearing armor, actual armor, black and sleek and adorned with snarling dragons whose tails lay out the length of his collarbones to his shoulders, and spiked edges at his elbows, wrists, and knuckles. The metal looks old, well taken care of, but like it’s seen battle, with all its faint chips, scratches, scuffs, and jagged grooves in places that would have killed a normal man. And- and he’s got a long _sword_ at his hip in a black scabbard, the hilt solid and a dull bronze, a twisting spiral groove winding up to the jagged, sharp end, long enough to serve as a small dagger for whoever ends up on the wrong side of it in a fight.

His eyes aren’t glowing, but they’re red.

“Steven,” the man greets, an unusual accent curling the name that hooks under all their ribs, “James. Agent Barton, and the deadly Agent Romanova as well. A pleasure, to meet you all in person.”

Steve stands a little taller as the man approaches, watching him intently, Bucky casually loose at his side which means he’s anything but. He tries to fortify himself. When the man was just a voice, he had presence, but in person he’s something different almost altogether. It fills the room to bursting and keeps going, spills over the sides and past its edges, something old and unnamable. 

“Why did you call me here?” he asks carefully, because he didn’t call Bucky, or Barton, or Romanoff, just Steve. It’s always been just him.

“Your help,” the man replies at his leisure. He speaks like he has all the time in the world. He might. “And, please, we’ve known each other for years, Steven. Call me Vlad.” He smiles and his teeth are sharp, eight points, just like Steve’s and Bucky’s both. Somehow, he’s paler than them though, white, like paper, where Steve and Bucky are more of an off-cream.

Barton does a doubletake while everyone’s eyes widen varying degrees. “As in the Impaler?” he blurts before snapping his mouth shut with a _clack_.

Vlad _chuckles_.

Barton whips his head around to Steve. “You’ve been telepathically talking with _Dracula?_ ” he nearly hisses.

“Apparently,” Steve replies, quiet and soft, never taking his eyes off their host.

“Come, shall we talk by the fire?” Vlad asks, and a fire roars to life in the fireplace at the other end of the room, huge enough to fit half of the hulk inside and guarded by two fierce, roaring lion statues made of a similar metal to the weeping woman with the vase out front.

“What did you need my help with?” Steve asks instead.

Vlad’s lips curve up, eyes glowing a faint red. “Destroying Hydra, of course. For good.”

They all stare, Steve’s lips parted slightly. He licks the lower one and closes it.

\-----

“Sir, the beacon has stopped,” Agent Desken reports, “We should reach it in approximately forty minutes.”

“Good,” Strucker smiles, standing tall next to the helm with his hands at his lower back, “We will finally get to test the twins.”

Agent Desken glances warily towards the door.

At the other end of the submarine, chains rattle quietly between two slim wrists, two pairs of glowing eyes staring out reinforced glass between iron bars in joint cages above muzzles strapped over their lower faces: one pair glowing red, the other blue.

\-----

Bucky’s heart would be beating double time if it could.

“How?” Steve asks, borderline demands. 

Fortunately, Vlad seems to find it amusing rather than affronting since he smiles again. He reaches his hand back into the dark of his cape only for his nails and pale fingers to appear out the other side next to the straps holding his sword at his waist. “We share a trait, you and I.” He pulls his hand out while everyone stares (and Barton gapes). “It is to be expected. We share blood, after all.”

Steve looks up sharply at that and Bucky zeroes in on those words.

“Yes, you as well, James,” Vlad confirms, red eyes shifting to him. Vlad’s brow furrows, a faint line creasing between them. “Though, that tiny little man got it through other means.”

Now Steve’s brow furrows while Bucky stills. “How did Erskine get it?” Steve asks.

“We made a deal,” Vlad answers, “My blood for assistance from its results, when the time came and your war broke.”

Steve frowns. “This is why you offered to get me out of the ice.”

“Wait,” Barton cuts in, “He- You-” he flounders while Romanoff look at him sharply.

“You were awake,” she surmises.

Steve freezes, looks away.

“How long?” Romanoff asks, unusually gentle. Steve doesn’t answer and her eyes widen. “The whole time?” Steve still doesn’t look back. “...Well, that explains a lot.”

He does glance over at that, then looks back to Vlad. “You can’t kill them yourself?”

“Can you?” Vlad returns, “You have been culling their numbers, but not faster than they have been growing. It has been almost a century.” He inclines his head regally. “I mean to destroy the very idea of them itself.”

Steve pauses. “That means innocent lives.”

“No lives are innocent, save the newly born,” Vlad counters, “And if that is disagreeable, countless innocent lives are always lost in war. You and I both know that more than many others.” Steve swallows. “To destroy an idea, you must destroy every piece of it. Well, almost.” He looks between Steve and Bucky at that, and smiles, slow and almost amused.

They’re all quiet for a moment, thinking, just the sound of the large fire crackling in the fireplace. Steve looks over at Bucky, who’s watching it, and watches the orange of the flames turn his eyes an orange-white, watches them dance in the mirror of his irises. Bucky looks over, then sharply shifts his gaze to the side when there’s a quit scuff-sound. Some creature melts out of the shadows, skin a dark, brown-warm grey, eyes red and hair long and straight. It almost looks like some sort of goblin, human in its basic features, but twisted otherwise. Its skin is tight to its body, wrinkled in the creases where it’s mouth stretches wide and it’s elbows and knees and fingers bend, bones and tendons standing out stark against the shadowed dips and curves from the firelight. It hisses, soft and low, sharp teeth a dirty white with red tips, veins of a sort spidering out from bottom to top.

“I know,” Vlad says calmly, drawing their eyes back briefly. He looks to them. “My other guests are on their way. You have a little time to make your decision.”

Steve stares at that, then looks back to the creature, past it to the double doors.

“They’re coming,” Bucky says, low and quiet.

“Yes,” Vlad replies, lips curving up, “A long time coming, for them, at least.”

“You brought them here,” Bucky says, dangerously low, slanting sharp eyes to him.

Vlad just smiles wider. “It was inevitable. I just lined events up as much in my favor as possible. Well, mostly.” He looks back to Steve at that, and Steve stares, eyes slowly widening.

“Are you Other Bucky?” he whispers.

Vlad smiles indulgently. “No. That has always been your own.” Steve relaxes a little. Vlad gestures and another creature melts out from the shadows, this time holding a black tray. It walks over, smooth as can be, not a centimeter of the liquid in the wine bottle on top rocking in the dark green of the glass. It holds the tray perfectly still while Vlad pulls the cork out of the top and pours-

Steve sniffs, watching the blood make a slow arc into the clear glass. It’s obscene in the care he takes with it, the leisurely patience and normality. Vlad pours another and then caps the bottle, taking hold of the glasses between his strong, pale fingers and offering them out.

“I know you already fed, but you will both need your strength for the battle to come.”

Steve stares. Bucky’s the first to reach forward, slow, almost hesitant, but the blood doesn’t slosh when he accepts it and pulls it closer to himself. Steve can smell it, as aromatic as any wine he smelled when he was human.

It’s fresh.

He swallows again.

He reaches out, slowly taking it and hating himself for how badly he _wants_ it.

Vlad’s mouth doesn’t move, but Steve can see the smile in his eyes when he looks up. He almost throws the glass in his face, but refrains, fingers tightening on it instead, almost to the point of cracking the glass. He raises it to his lips, taking a sip before making himself look over at Bucky instead of closing his eyes in damn _ecstasy_.

Bucky looks back out of the bottom of his eye, taking a slow swallow of his own, head tilted back. He drains the glass in two long swallows and Steve makes himself do the same. If there’s anything in it, they’re going to get hit by it together.

Vlad chuckles low and quiet, drawing their eyes back.

 _Right. Telepathy_.

“I’m surprised you two haven’t formed a mental bond yet, given all that I’ve seen,” Vlad comments. Steve blinks. Vlad shrugs, an elegant, slow wave of his shoulders, one end to the other. “I have not seen many like us. It could be out of your reach,” he adds dismissively.

“‘Us’?” Bucky asks quietly, still watching him carefully.

Vlad hums a low agreement. “I don’t often share my blood with others, and that is the way to retain the self.” He gestures with a graceful hand toward the creature still holding the tray, stock still and staring into some middle distance. “These do not have my blood in them, only my bite.”

Barton straightens in horror. “They’re you’re _victims?_ ”

“Mmm,” Vlad replies noncommittally, “Yes, and no. Many offered themselves to me in a plight for immortality, or in return for a favor, some life changing circumstance beyond their means and mortal power. Some die, some become this as you see before you, a loyal servant in immortal, bound servitude.” He shifts his eyes back up to Barton, then Steve and Bucky. “But to give my blood? The consequences would be dire indeed, if the receiver were to turn on me.” He quirks his lips, sharp and almost a challenge. “But you children have a long way to go before that can bare any fruit.”

“A possible battle for another century,” Romanoff deducts, “If they survive that long.”

Vlad inclines his head, like a pleased cat, or maybe something more like a lion, considering all the...sharp.

Barton shifts just a smidge closer to Natasha.

“But a mental connection is possible?” Steve asks.

Vlad looks back to him, lips curving up again. “Are you sure you want to know the inside of his head? Or him, yours?”

Steve stands a little taller. “I don’t need to hide from him.”

“True,” Vlad replies, “It’s _them_ you’re more concerned about.”

Steve lowers his head a little and looks back to Barton and Romanoff, who quirks an eyebrow.

“Rogers, we already know you’re not as normal as you pretended to be when you came out of the ice.” She doesn’t say she already knew it from day one when she saw the night vision security surveillance in Fury’s office. She just didn’t realize he’d been awake in the ice that whole time. But now that she knows, the pieces fit.

Rogers stares at her for a moment, eyes a little wide, then shifts them to Barton, who shrugs.

“Honestly, we’re all fucked up. You probably just take the cake out of all of us,” he says.

Steve blinks, stares again for another few moments, long enough to make Barton start feeling uncomfortable, then turns back forward. He doesn’t say anything, but Barton can tell his shoulders are a little higher than they get when he’s relaxed or peacocking to defend them from damn _Dracula_. Of all the things he thought he’d think during his time as an Avenger, that one wasn’t on the list.

The creature by the door hisses low again and Barton jumps as they all look over at it. He didn’t forget that it was there, exactly, but half his focus wasn’t on it anymore either.

“Finish preparations,” Vlad orders calmly. The creature bows as it melts back into the shadows, and Vlad turns, cape swishing silently with it before he starts walking the long distance back to his throne. “Converse amongst yourselves and make a decision,” he says as he walks away. The other creature holding the tray sets it on a small, nearby table that came from- _somewhere_ , because it damn well wasn’t there a minute ago, and then disappears like the first one.

Barton looks to Rogers and Barnes, then Romanoff. “...So,” he says after a minute of humongous fire crackling and tense silence, “What are we going to do?”

“Even if we manage to take out the Hydra agents coming here, that still leaves the plants worldwide,” Romanoff says quietly.

“I could kill all of them,” Steve says just as quiet, not that it makes much difference. Vlad can still hear them.

“But at what price?” Romanoff asks, looking over, “He hasn’t named the terms or the stakes.” Barton chokes on a snort and she levels him with a look.

“Possible death or severe exhaustion and vulnerability,” Vlad’s voice echoes. They all look his way where he’s casually reclined at a carefree angle in his uncomfortably stiff looking throne. His red eyes stare back. “The power needed would tax us both, and surely drain the life of whoever did it alone. If we share the burden, the chance is...less. Though, should we survive, we will both be weakened and vulnerable. Should your allies fail to protect you, you would do ill protecting yourself.”

Steve frowns a little.

“So his chances of dying don’t narrow completely,” Romanoff concludes.

Vlad gives a casual roll of his shoulders. “Depends on how badly you want to purge Hydra from the world. The risk must always be weighed against the reward.”

“How do we know you won’t split the load in your favor?” Bucky asks, as low and quiet as he has been. He knows as well as Steve does that it’s useless raising his voice or lowering it.

“Steve will be able to withdraw his aid at any time,” Vlad answers, resting his elbow on a pointy armrest and his cheek in his hand like he’s bored, “Though I wonder if he will?”

They all look at Steve, who keeps his eyes on Vlad.

“You can make me do it, can’t you,” he says more than asks, because he thinks he already knows the answer.

Vlad smiles. “I have always been able to influence you, Steven, but I am much more intrigued about what you will willingly choose to do: maintain your own self preservation? Or that of your allies? Will you choose to let them die at the hands of your most hated enemies? Or will you sacrifice yourself for them?”

Romanoff watches Steve closely. Vlad’s got him there. If anyone here is likely to push themselves to death trying to get rid of Hydra, it’s either Rogers or Barnes, or both, but Barnes has always been more about survival. Rogers, on the other hand is harder to predict. She thought she knew his behaviors, but his possible insanity puts everything on a dangerous slope. He could push himself to death, or he could pull out without a moment’s notice and damn them all. It makes her fingers want to twitch and put a bullet in his brain just to take out the dangerously unknown factor he represents.

She glances over to find Barnes’ eyes on her, glowing a soft red. She’s not sure if that’s Vlad’s doing or his own. Maybe it doesn’t matter at this point.

Steve clenches his jaw, turning back to the others.

‘ _I know you hate them_ ,’ Vlad’s voice whispers in his ear. Steve keeps himself from turning around. ‘ _Especially after learning more of what they’ve done to your beloved, why he would not let you return the pleasure he gave you last night_.’

The hair on the back of his neck stands on end as the whisper ghosts across it. Steve keeps his eyes ahead on the fire, fingers curling.

‘ _We could destroy them all_ ,’ Other Bucky says at his side, blue peacoat next to the black of Bucky’s worn jacket in his periphery. It makes his heart twinge, knowing they’re right next to each other. ‘ _It would be forever, Stevie_.’ Steve can’t help glancing over briefly at that, even though he knows Romanoff and Barton are watching him closely, even while they talk to each other. He looks over at Other Bucky, only to run into Real Bucky’s eyes. They flare red and Bucky snarls in warning over at Vlad, electricity crackling once or twice around him, silencing Barton and Romanoff’s quiet debate.

Steve’s not sure what Vlad does, but Bucky’s eyes fade back to blue-grey and the growling stops. He looks back to Steve.

“You want to destroy them,” Steve says, because that’s been Bucky’s mission since Steve found him, since _before_ Steve found him.

“Not at the cost of you,” Bucky replies, slow and careful. Steve darts his eyes down and sees his fingers curled almost tight enough to pierce his skin. This is probably difficult for him, being so close to his goal but stopped by the roadblock that is _Steve_. Steve’s standing in his way, stopping him. Steve doesn’t want to stop him.

He looks back up, then turns around and looks at Vlad. “I’ll do it,” he decides.

Bucky opens his mouth, but Vlad smiles and stands with a, “Good,” cutting him off. Vlad looks towards the way they came in. “And just in time, too.”

Bucky stares at Steve, heart constricting in his chest. 

This is panic. He has felt it before, but this is different, this is not panic over his own wellbeing, over the punishment he knows is coming. This is panic for someone else, concern for Steve’s wellbeing.

He’s aware of Vlad descending the steps that lead up to his throne, heading for the door to meet with more of his creatures. He’s aware of Romanoff and Barton looking at him, Steve, saying something between each other before they head for the door too. To get ready for Hydra, most likely, maybe call in reinforcements to help them fight, if they haven’t already. Widow’s smart, she weaves webs for a living. It will help with the tide of battle. But it’s all a background to the rising panic in his chest, just noise he’s aware of but can’t focus on. It’s important, he knows it’s important, but this is-

He grabs Steve’s wrist and pulls him close, sharp and jerky. Steve stumbles into him, surprise on his face before Bucky closes his eyes to it and presses their mouths together, hard and firm and- desperate, he’s desperate, he realizes. He doesn’t want Steve to do this, even though he wants Hydra dead and gone. But it wasn’t just for him, he wanted them gone for _Steve, too_. He didn’t want Steve to wake up a hundred years from now in a world with Hydra still somewhere beyond their window. Their- He wants to be in that future, whatever it is, with Steve. He wants Steve to stay with _him_.

He wraps his left arm around Steve’s back and presses them close, hard enough to feel pain, the discomfort of it, and kisses him like he should have the first time, the last time Bucky saw him in the war, ignoring the cuts and nicks of their teeth catching each other’s lips and skin. They don’t need to breathe, so he kisses Steve as long as he deems necessary, until the screaming thing in his chest and head has uncoiled a bit, enough to pull back. Steve’s eyes stay closed for a couple moments more before he dazedly blinks them open, staring at him a little wide eyed.

“If you die,” Bucky says, low and quiet and dangerous, glancing briefly at Vlad over Steve’s shoulder, who looks back, “I will kill you myself,” he finishes, looking back to Steve after. Steve blinks, still staring, and then he...smiles, slow and sweet and so damn- _heartbreaking_. It hurts, somewhere in his chest, the sweetness of that smile. He’s said it before then, some time he can’t remember.

Steve wraps arms around him, keeps him achingly close, and Bucky slides his hand up the side of his neck to grip his cheek. Steve leans close and kisses him then, as soft and sweet as his smile before pressing closer, harder, his own promise. He pulls back and it’s Bucky’s eyes this time that stay closed for a moment before he forces them back open.

“I love you,” Steve says. Bucky’s cheeks would warm, dumbly, if they could.

Bucky makes himself pull away and Steve’s touch lingers, trails, as they part. Bucky heads for the door, looking back at Steve the whole time, and makes himself follow Barton and Romanoff’s heartbeats out of the room, looking at Vlad one more time just past the door. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t need to. Vlad inclines his head slightly, that slight curve at the edges of his lips, and the doors swing closed on their own, shutting Bucky out in darkness. He stares for a moment, can almost see Steve beyond them, and makes himself turn around and walk down the hall, further and further away.

“ _I love you_.”

He presses his lips firmly together, fingers curling. He’ll say it back when they see each other again, after this whole shitfest is over. He’ll _say it **to** Steve_.

\-----

“Baron Strucker, sir,” Agent Desken says, stopping at his right, “We’ve reached land, five miles out.”

Every Hydra agent turns to look back at him and Strucker stands taller, gripping his left wrist at his lower back. “Send the advance troops,” he orders, sweeping a hand out, “Dock all subs.” The agents turn back to their stations to relay orders. Strucker turns and heads for the door, spinning the wheel and prying it open. Desken follows. “It’s time to prepare the twins,” Strucker says with a slow smile. Desken holds in a shudder and follows him down the narrow hall, their bootsteps lost in the cacophony of Hydra agents running to line up at the exit shaft, ready to lay siege to the enemy ahead.


	22. It's the heartbeat of history, the lightning inside of me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood music; https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=riFU02rtA24

Barton snaps the holding straps and pulls his long case up and out from behind the alcove in the jet wall, walking over and setting it on top of the disguises container. He smooths his hands out along the full length of it, then slides them down and clicks the locks open, pushes the lid up. The small crossbow he’s been using is convenient, but he’s missed the full size one, the weight of it in his hand and the taut string that barely resists his pull anymore. That, and Stark made some modifications that he’s been wanting to try out.

He picks it up turns it in his hand, looks it up and down, just in case, tests the string. He lines up a shot and pulls the string back a little tighter, then lets it go. The string bounces, vibrates so hard it’s a blur and he watches it settle, lips quirking up.

“You two need a moment?” Romanoff asks as she passes, heading up into the cockpit to grab her stashed weaponry.

“Had one,” he replies, “Backup ETA?”

“Fifteen minutes,” she answers back over her shoulder, slipping a knife somewhere into her suit and checking over a gun, pulling the hammer back.

“Hopefully it’ll be the shortest fifteen minutes of our lives,” he returns, setting his bow down to slip on his quiver. He reaches over and grabs his own stashed weapons, slipping another gun into an empty holster, one bullet clip in the side of each boot, and slipping the other into a spare pocket. “You want any-” he cuts off his call out, slowly raising an eyebrow as his eyes following Natasha and the longass rifle she’s carrying down the length of the jet, down the ramp, and out onto the dirt where Barnes is still standing still as a statue, gaze focused out across the ocean. She offers it over to him with a small bag of clips and he looks over at it, at her, and then back to the rifle. He takes it and the bag after a moment with a small nod, shoulders the bag, and then starts walking, disappearing around the side of the jet. 

Barton closes his bow case and heads out, stopping next to her as he looks around. Barnes is heading over to one of the large rock outcroppings a couple yards into the trees surrounding the meadow.

“Should I be worried about my position as an Avenger?” he asks, twirling his bow by the handle.

Romanoff glances over at him but doesn’t say anything.

He still his bow. “Nat, I was joking.”

Her lips slowly curl.

“Nat? _Tasha?_ ”

\--

They’re coming. He can see and hear them clearly now, in the sky and in the water. He pulls the communication device Romanoff gave him out of the bag and presses the button. “Sky and water,” he reports into it, “Ten jets, three large submersibles, at least twenty small submersibles.” He lets go of the button.

“ _Roger_ ,” Romanoff’s voice comes through the small speaker, “ _Give us cover until you run out of ammo. Hate to say it, but you’ll probably have to do the heavy lifting until backup arrives_.”

“Understood,” he returns, letting go of the button. They have a few minutes. He closes his eyes.

 _Steve_ , he thinks intently, firmly, _Steve?_

He waits.

Nothing.

He opens his eyes, looking out from his perch in the dark of the trees. If he and Steve can form a mind connection, they don’t have it yet.

He tightens his grip on the rifle before forcing his fingers to loosen, bringing it up to his shoulder and lining up the sight.

Any minute now and Hydra will land. 

Self appointed mission: Protect Steve and Destroy Hydra

 _Commencing_ , he thinks, to Steve, to himself.

\--

“Are you prepared, Steven?”

Steve drags his eyes away from the door, the way Bucky went, and finds Vlad’s taken up the space a foot in front of him. He makes Steve feel...small, in some ways, different from before the serum. In others, he reminds Steve of Erskine when Vlad calls him ‘Steven’, but in the rest... 

It doesn’t matter. He has a job to do and Bucky to protect.

“Yes,” he answers.

Vlad offers his hands out, palms up. Steve looks at them for a moment before taking them into his own. “Our powers will merge,” Vlad explains as his shadow cast from the firelight ripples around his feet, slowly up his form like it’s biding its time, waiting for Steve, “You may pull away at any time, but remember what doing so costs.”

It costs Bucky’s safety, Bucky always having to look over his shoulder when he deserves better, better than an ongoing war brought on by a corrupt idea that should have died decades ago. It costs so much and so little all at once.

He just wants Bucky to be safe.

Steve nods and starts focusing. There’s a _surge_ against his palms where their skin meets and he lets the black cover him whole, feet to head, and then tangle with that surge, feels it wind up his arms and _into_ him, just as his own...being marks and sinks into Vlad. It’s intimate. He doesn’t like it, but he ignores the discomfort for now.

He can _feel_ Vlad smile, even though he is made of darkness now, too.

“ _Come_ ,” Vlad says... _through_ him, “ _Let us destroy our enemy_.”

Steve lets go of his human sight and _sees_.

There are...so many of Hydra, so much more than he-

A general’s secretary.

A college professor.

A store clerk.

A taxi driver.

A father driving his kids to football practice.

An olympic athlete.

A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.

A teenage dropout.

A single mother.

A mechanical engineer.

A preschool teacher.

Steve stares at them all where he drifts between here and there, the shadows in the corners of rooms, the space just beyond them, the looking glass in the dark. His brow furrows, confused, surprised, shocked, and then...it clicks, and he feels _horrified_.

A general’s secretary. _Rerouting calls and relaying classified information_.

A college professor. _Recruiting minds and using the labs and equipment for Hydra experiments_.

A store clerk. _Scouting and information gathering_.

A taxi driver. _Transport and routing_.

A father driving his kids to football practice. _Recruiting teenagers and other desperate parents_.

An olympic athlete. _Training and recruiting_.

A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. _Inside information, rerouting, recruiting, spying_.

A teenage dropout. _Looking for work_.

A single mother. _Looking for work_.

A mechanical engineer. _Designing weapons, building projects their government won’t ethically fund_.

A preschool teacher. _Subtly teaching children Hydra’s ways, priming them for recruiting, recruiting their parents_.

“ _An idea spreads like a virus_ ,” Vlad comments, voice echoing through him and all over

Steve looks over and blinks, slowly panning his eyes up. Vlad is _huge_. Steve can just make out wings in the starry dark and wonders if he can make wings, too. Can Bucky?

“ _Shall we get started?_ ”

Steve nods.

 _For Bucky_.

\--

The first line of smaller submersibles dock first and the asset picks the emerging agents off as soon as they’re too far away from their machines to run back and hide. They scatter for the trees to take cover as fast as they can, but between him, Romanoff, and Barton, they manage to hold them off for a few minutes. And then Hydra gets smart and uses the guns attached to the quinjets in the sky while the second line of submersibles docks and they have to take cover, Romanoff and Barton ducking behind the jet while Bucky drops out of his tree, lands on his feet, and darts up into another one. The sun is setting when the rifle clicks empty and he’s out of spare clips and he drops it, focusing on his hands. They spark and catch and he closes his eyes, lets the _thrum_ of energy consume him and burn him from the inside out. He leaps up into the sky, aimed at the quinjets, trying to act as a diversion so Romanoff and Barton can get in their jet and return fire.

He crashes through a jet, then another, tearing through metal with his bare hands and listening to the brief screams of the dying before the explosions drown them out, leaping through fire and bullets to do it all over again. The bullets sting when they hit but don’t quite pierce, so he doesn’t stop. 

He feels his lips move and doesn’t realize he’s grinning until he swallows fire.

Romanoff and Barton run for the jet, Barton slapping the back hatch closed while Romanoff shoots out the closing gap and he runs for the front, getting the jet started. He pulls up enough to hover it and turn it around, then hits the button for the main gun and starts firing at the Hydra agents and their cover of trees.

“Remember when that dog food guy suggested canons for the quinjet and Fury said he’d take it into consideration?” Barton asks, eyes focused ahead.

“Agent Aines?” Romanoff asks, pushing a container open in the back and pulling out a rifle, loading it.

“Yeah,” Barton replies back louder, “Remind me to file a complaint to Fury for never doing it.” He pauses when he catches sight of something- someone familiar, covered in black with a white cross on his chest darting between the trees. “Nat,” he calls back over his shoulder, “Can you please come tell me I’m hallucinating?”

She moves up front, leaning on a hand on the back of the other pilot seat and looking out the window. A black figure darts to another tree, then stands still, long enough for her to see a familiar smirk.

“Damn,” she says, moving to the back again.

Barton sighs. “Damn,” he agrees, just as the gun runs out of bullets, “ _Double damn_.” Which is about when Rumlow rushes towards the jet with a swarm of Hydra agents trying to keep up behind him. “I thought he was dead!” Barton lets out as he pushes out of his seat and runs to the back where Natasha’s already hitting the button for the hatch.

She throws him a flat look back over her shoulder. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, we’re traveling with two vampires and _Dracula’s_ in the castle a mile that way,” he says, jerking his thumb and following her down the ramp, “Still.”

Her lips twitch and she brings her rifle up, aiming. 

He brings up his bow.

\--

Bucky crashes through another jet just as the sun sinks below the horizon, and then he hears a piercing _wail_ like nothing he’s ever heard before, and whips his head around as he lands on top of another jet, digging his claws in to hold on. The forest surrounding the castle _trembles_ , a tremor shaking out the leaves of the trees from the epicenter at the castle. The trees give a _shake_ and then he can see them: the black forms darting between the trees straight for Hydra’s offensive line. There’s countless numbers of them, those creatures from the castle, all with sharp teeth and claws out, aiming for a throat to tear into. 

He tears through the jet he’s on and goes for another while the rest of the submersibles dock and the jets change their aim of fire to the creatures darting out from the trees, two of the three large submarines finally coming to a stop and their top hatches opening. More Hydra agents spill out like ants from their mounds, and the third large submarine comes to a stop just as he leaps out of the next quinjet explosion to angle back towards Barton and Romanoff, landing as a crater in the middle of the ground and sending both Hydra agents and dirt alike flying.

\--

“Thought you were dead!” Barton calls over the jet, popping up to fire a grenade arrow before ducking back down, covering his hearing aids to muffle the explosion.

“ _Tried it! Decided I oughtta come back and kill you first!_ ” Rumlow calls back. Something comes up over the jet and lands next to him and Barton jerks, staring at the glassy, horrified eyes in a Hydra agent’s head.

“Aww, come on!” he makes himself call back, popping back up to launch a net, “ _I_ didn’t kill you!”

“ _I don’t hold it against you!_ ” Rumlow replies, a grin in his tone, “ _Honestly thought it’d be_ -”

Something grabs Barton’s ankle and his eyes dart down, going wide when he sees black... _oil_ coiling hard around his ankle from the shadows. He moves quick and shoves Natasha hard out of the shadow of the jet just before one launches up and wraps around his forearm.

“-the asset,” Rumlow finishes, rounding the back of the jet. Romanoff whips around and fires and Rumlow’s head jerks back with the hit, boots coming to a stop. He lowers his head back forward and reaches up to dig the bullet out of the center of his forehead, blood black where it streams down the center of his nose and off to and around the side of his mouth, eyes glowing red like the creatures from the castle. “Turns out Rogers has a vicious streak,” Rumlow continues, flicking the bullet off into the bushes, “ _Who knew_.”

Barton glances down at the black tightening around his arm and ankle, keeping him stuck. He thought it was like Rogers’ shadows at first, but now he can tell it’s... _slimier_ (gross), and sort of... _dripping_ ( _also gross_ ).

“Told ya he was gonna be a problem,” Rumlow smirks, teeth sharper than they were the last time Barton saw him.

“You’re-” he starts.

Rumlow’s smirk widens. “Guess dying with a variation of the serum in your veins leads to vampirism. Lucky me.”

Romanoff switches guns lightning quick and fires again, and this time Rumlow jerks, screams, hisses, the bullet wounds in his chest smoking. His face contorts, more lines creasing in it like the creatures, and he jerks his arm up, the black, slimy shadows streaking up out from under the jet towards Natasha just as a white streak comes crashing _into_ Rumlow, denting a crater into the ground with a loud _CRACK_ and sending enough dirt up to blind them. The black around his arm and ankle go slack, slide back into the shadows on the ground and Barton moves, scrambles to his feet and pulls an arrow out, notches it, and aims it at the crater. There’s screams from the other side of the jet, the people dying kind and the terrifying monster kind, so he keeps an eye out for any of _that_ , too.

Electricity _sparks_ up out of the cloud of dirt and the haze finally clears enough to see Barnes, or- 

“Barnes?” Barton asks, eyes wide. Because he’s white and glowing, electricity shooting up off of his body every which way, sharp and hair raising. His hair’s drifting about like it’s in the water and red eyes glance their way, the full eye kind, a white-blue smoke smoking out the corners like when Rogers’ gets all terrifying in dark spaces.

Rumlow laughs beneath Bucky, manic and delighted, so Bucky raises his fist and puts it through Rumlow’s face, or tries to, frowning when Rumlow’s slimy black fist catches his and starts _oozing_ up his arm. Rumlow’s eyes are red, veins spider webbing out the whites of his eyes, and his skin is a sickly gray-white, more like a corpse than a living thing.

“Rogers gave me a gift,” Rumlow says, smile twitching smaller when Bucky just stares at him, “I can kill you now.”

Bucky keeps staring.

Rumlow snarls. “I _can!_ ” The black slowly creeps up Bucky’s arm, inching and inching until it’s up to his white-blue glowing elbow. Rumlow smirks, mouth stretching wider than any human’s. “I _**can.**_ ”

“You think you’re like Steve,” Bucky deduces.

Rumlow snarls again. “I’m _better_.”

Bucky’s eyes flare bright red, smoke glinting. “You’re not.” The air around him _hums_ and the black disintegrates, dries and flakes off, drifting up off his arm in pieces like burnt paper. Bucky pulls his hand back and slams it over Rumlow’s face, watching his eyes go wide between his glowing fingers, dying inhuman shrieks and screams muffled against his palm with smoke rising from the length of Rumlow, fogging the air before it swirls away and dissipates. Bucky rises and leaves Rumlow’s charred and cracked skeleton behind.

Then gets hit hard in the back by something, a blue blur streaking by just before fire blazes for his face-

He dodges, only to get shoved back straight into it, yelling as the fire tries digging into his skin like needles all over. He lands hard on his hands and knees and forces his head up.

There’s two, one with glowing blue eyes and one with red. The red one is standing ahead in all black, the Soldier’s muzzle on her face and long brown, greasy hair drifting on the wind like a ghost.

He slants his eyes over.

The blue one’s got short white hair, but he’s also in matching black with the asset’s muzzle over half of his face, eyes focused but vacant.

The Soldier looks between the two. 

The girl’s fingers twitch and slowly curl, starting to glow a vibrant red, the color seeping out like fog or smoke before the edges start catching like embers-

 _Fuck_ , Bucky thinks, unbidden and vehement, and tries reaching down into himself. _I’m fast, but Blue is faster_ , he thinks, going deeper, down, down further, to somewhere- he doesn’t know where. _Red is quick, but more brutal than blue, so far, hits harder_. _But_ -

The blue one has to go down first.

An arrow hits the blue one in the back thigh while bullets hit the red one in the left shoulder. It’s the distraction Bucky needs, but the blue one crashes into Romanoff, sends her flying and skidding into the dirt and then comes straight for him and he _pushes_ -

And then down becomes up, with a light, floating feeling he’s never felt before, like he is made of air and energy and thought and nothing else. Like it’s...easy, so easy. He lets the feeling take over, almost, drift, trying not to focus on it too hard lest he lose it. For the first time that he can remember, he is light. The weight of the arm is gone. The weight of the metal in his body is gone. Yet he is here, a conductor, a spark, a livewire free to roam, move, _exist_.

Free.

He thought he was free before, but _this_ is it, to be unafraid, to be tied down only to what he wants, to have the world truly open for him, pages in a book he can now turn, no longer stopped by a firm hand or his own lacking. He can turn the pages. He can _be_.

Something comes crashing down and Barton dives over to cover Romanoff where she’s trying to get up, shielding her eyes with his body and tightly closing his own as something silently explodes, bright and hot white beyond his eyelids. The sound comes after, a great, deafening _**BOOM**_ that has him yelling from the feedback in his hearing aids. He yanks them out and sucks in a breath of dirt and ozone, adjusting and soaking in the muffled reprieve as long as he can. He forces his eyes open a crack when the bright white dials back, and tries looking around.

Then his eyes widen.

The edge of a crater starts just a few feet past Natasha’s boots, stretches out maybe the size of three quinjets all the way around, and Barnes is-

Barton slowly drags his eyes up.

Floating five feet above it, glowing so bright all Barton can really make out are his eyes, the brightest red he’s ever seen. Fire hurdles at Barnes and Barton shields his eyes from the heat, Barnes’ name on the back of his tongue even though it’s _too late_ -

The fire doesn’t hit, hits an invisible wall of some sort that sparks and crackles instead. Barnes is fine, still floating there when it dissipates, hasn’t moved an inch. He slowly raises an arm, barely points at the red girl and she’s struck by damn _lightning_ before any of them can do anything. She goes down, twitching, and the blue guy _screams_ , loud and outraged but muffled by the weird muzzle mask on his face, and runs to a blur at Barnes. He’s hit by lightning before he even gets halfway, collapsing in a heap in the grass and dirt, body twitching like the girl’s.

Barton watches them both for a moment to make sure they’re actually down before dragging his eyes back to Barnes. He’s looking off to the side, and Barton turns his head to follow his gaze when he feels Romanoff tense under him. He can see why.

They’re surrounded.

Those creatures from the castle have circled them, bodies dark like the wood of the surrounding trees, almost blending in with them save for their red eyes, dimmer than Barnes’, but bright enough to be eerie, especially in how they don’t blink. Barnes barely shifts in place and they all back up, scatter like a flock of baby alligators scurrying across the ground, off to kill Hydra, Barton guesses, unless Hydra’s already been wiped out, which is why they were just standing-

He freezes, hair standing on end, and darts his eyes back over to Barnes.

Barnes stares back, keeps perfectly still, then turns slightly towards the castle and shoots up into the sky like a lightning bolt in reverse, the delayed, resounding _**CRACK**_ like thunder making Romanoff jerk beneath him. They both watch the sky for a second before scrambling up and over to the jet, Romanoff limping a little. Barton rushes to the front to get the jet started while Romanoff keeps an eye on the back, gun trained out the opening until the hatch finishes closing. 

‘ _It’s quiet_ ’, she signs when she takes the copilot seat. He blinks, warily tries putting his hearing aids back in but they’re fucked from the shitton of input, so he pockets them and digs out his spares.

He’ll take her word for it. But does that mean-

\--

Steve steps out of the shadows, shifting his gaze around. 

He shouldn’t be here. It’s not one of his target stops, but... 

He looks around Stark’s empty, grey workshop, jolting just a little and turning when a motor sound catches his attention. A machine on wheels with a crane handle rolls up to him, the handle lifting and crane twisting like an inquiring puppy. Steve feels his lips twitch faintly and steps back into the shadows. The universe welcomes him with open arms, or _a_ universe. It spreads out before him like it wants him to look, explore, stay.

He steps back out again.

The activity in the underground room ceases when someone screams. Ross whips around and his eyes widen. “Christ. _Rogers?_ ”

Steve watches him.

Ross huffs a dark laugh, but there’s a little bit of sweat gathering at his temples and the skin around his eyes is tight. There’s fear in them, his eyes. “Is there _anything_ human left in you?” he demands.

Steve watches him a moment more, glances around the room, then looks back to Ross. “That’s the problem,” he finally says, calm, then quieter, “There’s too much.”

Ross opens his mouth to say something but Steve moves, darts quick and smooth like an eel through the black oil of the shadows and slaughters everyone in the room with just as sharp claws and teeth. He stares down at Ross’ face after, at his wide eyes and open mouth, the blood spray up under his chin and jaw and staining his white hair, then turns and lets the darkness swallow the rest. He lets it swallow him too, embrace him like his mother used to, like Bucky might have, if Hydra had never stabbed their filthy fingers into his beautiful mind.

Melting into the dark feels like stepping into warm water, or maybe it’s cold, or both? It’s hard to think about and process all at once, let alone describe. But Steve finds Vlad there, and they keep going, and going, until Vlad’s huge wings have wilted, started to shrivel, and Steve feels so thirsty some of the deaths are from his teeth. It helps him keep going, get the job done. This one last job.

He feels a...surge, somewhere, at some point, that draws his head around, but his eyelids are getting so heavy, and leaving the shadows is getting harder. But he does it, keeps doing it, once, then twice, again and again and again until Vlad finally says, voice a little tremulous, shaky, like rocks tumbling down an ancient mountain, “ _We are nearly finished_.”

So Steve keeps going, pushes himself past the way his fingers start to feel stiff, the way his body becomes loose, floppy, nearly out of his control, past the way his eyelids slide halfway closed and he can’t get them back up, past the slowly gathering weight in his legs, his thighs, the cold-empty spreading up through his stomach, he keeps going...

Until the dark swallows his mind, too.

\--

Bucky crashes down through the ceiling where he left Steve, collides with the stone that parts like water around his static form. Cement goes flying, debris hitting some of the creatures stationed as guards around the room, dust and dirt kicked up into a fog. He hears them hiss, growl, but he darts like lightning, searching for Ste-

He jerks to a stop, air crackling around him, and then he’s at Steve’s side, hands hovering over his still form on the ancient, wide brick. He’s not- His eyes aren’t open, but Bucky can’t tell if he’s alive. He doesn’t breathe. 

Movement makes him jerk his head up, finds Dracula being propped up by a few of the creatures, all glaring at and watching him warily. Dracula’s eyes are barely open.

“It is finished,” he croaks, voice still a little velvety despite sounding like he’s been in the desert for years, and then the creatures swarm him, wrap him up in themselves and they melt down into the shadows between the bricks of the floor, and are gone before Bucky can ask-

He looks back to Steve, to his closed eyes and still chest, laying on the floor like-

The bright white fades from Bucky’s hands, up his arms, from the rest of him as the crackling electricity goes silent. It’s easy to let the light feeling go when there’s a weight in his chest, his stomach, twisting and coiling and- 

_Dread_ , the word comes to him. He knows fear, and feels that too, but this is _dread_.

“Steve?” he asks, finally reaching for him, crossing the distance and touching him. He is cool, but that isn’t- He doesn’t know. He can’t know. He can’t know until Steve opens his eyes-

There are distant sounds of fighting outside, of thunder crashing and blasts going off, of engines approaching. The Soldier, the asset lets them fade, and Bucky gently cradles Steve’s face in his hands.

“Stevie?” he says softly, in a voice that might not be his own, and bends down before he knows what he’s doing, pressing their foreheads together. “Please,” he whispers, “Please. Please.” He can’t stop, stuck on repeat like a record, skipping over everything but that one word. “ _ **Please.**_ ”

 _Please don’t leave me alone_ , someone pleads across his thoughts, someone younger, someone more human yet- him, still him, this undead creature set to walk the earth until it is dust, or he is. He doesn’t want to do it alone, and some part of him, maybe that pleading part that begs again, might have thought he didn’t have to. He can survive without Steve, he knows he can, but he doesn’t... _want to_ , and traveling with Steve, he didn’t realize he’d come to think- that he wouldn’t have to.

His throat is tight, but there is no sting at the backs of his eyes, no tears to blur his vision. There is just that tightness in his throat as he looks down at Steve, holds his pale cheeks, searches his fanned lashes, brushes back his dirty blonde bangs. There is just this, this touch, this desperate searching, this...fervent _wishing_ he cannot grant himself, and has no one to make the wish to.

There’s running footsteps, getting closer, mechanics and whining energy, and he flares up white before he even has to think about it, letting go of Steve, hunching down over his still form with claws on the floor and a double toned snarl over the back of his shoulder. The steps stop at the double doors, Romanoff and Barton are there with Stark and a man in a red cape the Soldier doesn’t know. They watch him warily, watch Steve anxiously, fingers hovering, twitching, body’s aching to move closer. The asset snarls louder when Stark’s suit takes a heavy step, and Stark stops, stills, says something the asset doesn’t want to hear.

“ _Let me check him?_ ” comes Stark’s voice, “ _I know I’m not up to date on vampire anatomy, but there’s gotta be something_ -”

“You want to risk getting fried in that tincan so you can go play _doctor?_ ” Barton snaps. Which is strange, the Bucky part of the asset knows this, but it has been a long evening. “He doesn’t have a pulse!” 

Stark turns to Barton and the bickering starts. Romanoff’s eyes stay on the Soldier, and it’s the man with the cape that steps forward, just once, voice low and gentle even through the Soldier’s growling. “I am not of this world. I have familiarity with things beyond it. May I approach?” Stark and Barton stop arguing and turn to look, and the asset-

His growling cuts off, but he watches them, eyes narrow and glowing red, air crackling sharply. He growls low when the caped man takes another step, and another, and watches him intently, keeping aware of the others while the man slowly rounds to Steve’s head, then just as slowly crouches. The asset’s growling ticks up a notch when the man slowly reaches out, and the man looks at him with something that might be reassurance, not that it means anything, before looking back down at Steve. He gently presses both palms to the sides of Steve’s head, closing his eyes. 

They all wait in the tense silence.

The man opens his eyes after a minute and frowns, slowly pulling his hands away.

“I am sorry,” he says, looking up at the asset, who stills further, “I cannot tell if he is alive or not.”

“Maybe we should try giving him blood?” Stark asks, faceplate popping up. But it is Romanoff who moves forward while the caped man slowly rises and moves back to the door. The Soldier watches her tensely, warily. She stops on Steve’s other side and holds her wrist out, looking up to the Soldier.

“Don’t cut too deep,” she warns, face, suit, and knuckles dirty and hair a mess.

The Soldier doesn’t ask twice, just reaches up a hand and slices the base of her palm. She moves her wrist to aim it over Steve’s mouth, blood droplets trailing from Steve’s chin to his lips, nearly black in the night, and the Soldier reaches down as the bright white fades from his hand so he can touch, forcing Steve’s mouth open. He watches, they both do, as the red drips and slides down his tongue.

They wait, and wait. 

Romanoff pulls her hand back and bandages it.

They wait, the room holding its breath. 

Starlight comes through the hole he made, the sky clear.

 _They wait_.

Stark’s suit shifts, metal grinding against old stone. It almost sounds like the Soldier’s chest feels, heart grinding to dust in the useless cavity. The fireplace has almost gone out, he vaguely realizes, and then it does completely with a wispy trail of smoke drifting and dissipating out into the room.

Romanoff slowly sits back on her heels, head lowering a little and dirty, gloomy red hair shifting forward with the motion.

Steve doesn’t move.

The Soldier slides his hand up from Steve’s jaw, looking over his face in the electric white glow he makes. There is something building in him, huge and terrible and errant electricity sparks and crackles out along the ground from his hunched form, wisps of his white hair drifting and dancing at the edges of his vision, framing his view of Steve’s face.

“Steve,” he whispers, then growls it viciously, “ _ **Steve!**_ ”

Steve’s eyelids twitch and the Soldier stills, hyper focused. Steve’s brows twitch slightly together, and then his eyes crack open, red instead of blue. He doesn’t move, but his lips inch apart and his tongue slowly drags across the lower one, and he swallows. Barton runs over, drops to his knees at the top of Steve’s head, pulls a knife out of his boot, and cuts the back of his forearm, spilling blood straight into Steve’s mouth and the lower half of his face while Stark and the caped man hurry closer.

The Soldier keeps aware of them all, tense and wary, even though his eyes stay on Steve’s face, so he sees it when the shadows beneath Steve flutter, sees Steve’s lips start to stretch wide as his eyes widen and the Soldier moves, manages to get his hand on Steve’s throat and force him back down to the floor when he surges up, teeth snapping just shy of Barton’s forearm. Barton doesn’t move or flinch, but after another minute he has to pull his arm away and Steve _keens_ , loud and inhuman and _animal_ while Barton wraps it.

“Sorry, Rogers,” Barton quips, exhausted lines lining his pale cheeks.

Stark moves to crouch down next to Steve but Barnes throws his free hand out to stop him, sparks crackling along the length of it, glaring up with red eyes. “I can smell metal in your veins,” he growls.

Stark’s face pinches. “Okay, one: that’s creepy.”

Cape man is wise enough not to offer his blood. He smells like war and flowers and something otherworldly.

The Soldier gathers Steve to him as he forces his electricity to fade away, doesn’t wince when Steve’s claws dig into him, when Steve’s teeth bury themselves into his forearm through his jacket sleeve with a low, double toned _whine_ , watches his roaming red eyes that don’t know where to land. The Soldier shifts them so he can lean over Steve, sticks his neck out-

Steve releases his arm and surges up again, buries his teeth in the side of his neck and starts drinking, and Bucky lets him, keeping an eye on the others while Steve drinks. The movement is jerky, but Steve unburries one set of claws and reaches up, cupping the back of his head and holding him there. Pretty soon Bucky has to pull him away, pull back like the others, and finds Steve’s eyes have shifted from red to purple.

“Our own vampire charge indicator,” Stark comments, shifting a little.

Steve stares up at Bucky and Bucky watches him, and then Steve’s rushing up, pulling him down at the same time into a messy, predatory kiss.

“Really? Destroying, eating, drinking, fucking? Sounds like my MIT days,” Stark mutters, a little too shaky to pull off the joke. No one laughs, but Bucky hears Barton blow out a breath.

“We good? Because I’m gonna pass out now,” Barton says, voice fading.

Bucky pulls back after a minute, gripping Steve’s cheek in a hand. His eyes still look unfocused and purple, but they aren’t darting around anymore, are focused on him, just him.

“Did it,” Steve whispers roughly, drawing everyone’s eyes, “For you Buck. They’re all gone. You’re safe now.”

It’s silent.

Bucky glances around.

Stark looks unsettled. Barton looks wary, thoughtful, exhausted. Romanoff looks calm, if dirt covered and warn, controlled. The caped man looks calm as well, not in the way Romanoff is, but something else he can’t quite read. Used to this, maybe. They have all seen battle, the biggest shock from this whole thing might be that Hydra is...really gone, and that it was Steve, almost alone, who did it. There will be change in the world from here on out.

As for the Soldier, he feels a sense of...loss, but also like there is a weight in his throat he can’t quite swallow down. He’s not sure he believes it, even though he trusts Steve. He won’t until he sees it for himself.

“Buck,” Steve says, so quiet, almost a whine.

The Soldier presses his lips to Steve’s forehead and then gathers him up, lifting him, keeping him close. The others move, but he leaves them behind in a blurring world with their questions, stopping at the blood container inside the quinjet parked in front of the castle. He sets Steve down on top of the one with the clothes next to it and gets the blood one open. He grabs one packet, tears it open, sniffs it, then passes it to Steve, who devours it like he hasn’t eaten in three decades.

“That’s not true, Buck,” Steve mumbles between packets, eyes still vacant, purple slowly fading.

Bucky hands him another without comment, and keeps it up until the purple finally fades to blue. Steve looks over and blinks, seems to finally see him.

“Bucky,” he says, surprised, looks down to the packet in his hand and then around the jet, gaze landing back on him. Bucky can hear Stark’s heavy tread then, voices approaching from the castle.

They stare at one another.

“What do you want to do?” Bucky, the asset, the Soldier asks.

Steve stares at him. “I want to be with you. Both of you.” His eyes dart to Bucky’s left.

Bucky slowly reaches up, cups his cheek.

Steve’s face crumples in slow motion, and when he reaches for him, Bucky goes to him, and it is not as easy as going to Hydra when called, but he thinks it could be, someday. For now, since Hydra is...gone, it is the next easiest thing he has done.

Steve encircles him with his arms and legs, and the asset reaches up, wraps his arms securely around Steve’s back.

They disappear into the dark, just as footsteps round the back of the jet, a messy stack of empty packets all that’s left on the container.


	23. It's the heartbeat of history, the lightning inside of me - SAD ALTERNATE ENDING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha haaa I miscalculated there's actually one more chapter. This is the CH. 22 ALTERNATE SAD ENDING VERSION. If you don't want to read this as the end of the story, skip it to get to the happy ending. This chapter changes from the original version in the previous chapter around where I put the asterisk.
> 
> Music; https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=riFU02rtA24 (same as the previous chapter)

Barton snaps the holding straps and pulls his long case up and out from behind the alcove in the jet wall, walking over and setting it on top of the disguises container. He smooths his hands out along the full length of it, then slides them down and clicks the locks open, pushes the lid up. The small crossbow he’s been using is convenient, but he’s missed the full size one, the weight of it in his hand and the taut string that barely resists his pull anymore. That, and Stark made some modifications that he’s been wanting to try out.

He picks it up turns it in his hand, looks it up and down, just in case, tests the string. He lines up a shot and pulls the string back a little tighter, then lets it go. The string bounces, vibrates so hard it’s a blur and he watches it settle, lips quirking up.

“You two need a moment?” Romanoff asks as she passes, heading up into the cockpit to grab her stashed weaponry.

“Had one,” he replies, “Backup ETA?”

“Fifteen minutes,” she answers back over her shoulder, slipping a knife somewhere into her suit and checking over a gun, pulling the hammer back.

“Hopefully it’ll be the shortest fifteen minutes of our lives,” he returns, setting his bow down to slip on his quiver. He reaches over and grabs his own stashed weapons, slipping another gun into an empty holster, one bullet clip in the side of each boot, and slipping the other into a spare pocket. “You want any-” he cuts off his call out, slowly raising an eyebrow as his eyes following Natasha and the longass rifle she’s carrying down the length of the jet, down the ramp, and out onto the dirt where Barnes is still standing still as a statue, gaze focused out across the ocean. She offers it over to him with a small bag of clips and he looks over at it, at her, and then back to the rifle. He takes it and the bag after a moment with a small nod, shoulders the bag, and then starts walking, disappearing around the side of the jet.

Barton closes his bow case and heads out, stopping next to her as he looks around. Barnes is heading over to one of the large rock outcroppings a couple yards into the trees surrounding the meadow.

“Should I be worried about my position as an Avenger?” he asks, twirling his bow by the handle.

Romanoff glances over at him but doesn’t say anything.

He still his bow. “Nat, I was joking.”

Her lips slowly curl.

“Nat? _Tasha?_ ”

\--

They’re coming. He can see and hear them clearly now, in the sky and in the water. He pulls the communication device Romanoff gave him out of the bag and presses the button. “Sky and water,” he reports into it, “Ten jets, three large submersibles, at least twenty small submersibles.” He lets go of the button.

“ _Roger_ ,” Romanoff’s voice comes through the small speaker, “ _Give us cover until you run out of ammo. Hate to say it, but you’ll probably have to do the heavy lifting until backup arrives_.”

“Understood,” he returns, letting go of the button. They have a few minutes. He closes his eyes.

 _Steve_ , he thinks intently, firmly, _Steve?_

He waits.

Nothing.

He opens his eyes, looking out from his perch in the dark of the trees. If he and Steve can form a mind connection, they don’t have it yet.

He tightens his grip on the rifle before forcing his fingers to loosen, bringing it up to his shoulder and lining up the sight.

Any minute now and Hydra will land.

Self appointed mission: Protect Steve and Destroy Hydra

 _Commencing_ , he thinks, to Steve, to himself.

\--

“Are you prepared, Steven?”

Steve drags his eyes away from the door, the way Bucky went, and finds Vlad’s taken up the space a foot in front of him. He makes Steve feel...small, in some ways, different from before the serum. In others, he reminds Steve of Erskine when Vlad calls him ‘Steven’, but in the rest...

It doesn’t matter. He has a job to do and Bucky to protect.

“Yes,” he answers.

Vlad offers his hands out, palms up. Steve looks at them for a moment before taking them into his own. “Our powers will merge,” Vlad explains as his shadow cast from the firelight ripples around his feet, slowly up his form like it’s biding its time, waiting for Steve, “You may pull away at any time, but remember what doing so costs.”

It costs Bucky’s safety, Bucky always having to look over his shoulder when he deserves better, better than an ongoing war brought on by a corrupt idea that should have died decades ago. It costs so much and so little all at once.

He just wants Bucky to be safe.

Steve nods and starts focusing. There’s a _surge_ against his palms where their skin meets and he lets the black cover him whole, feet to head, and then tangle with that surge, feels it wind up his arms and _into_ him, just as his own...being marks and sinks into Vlad. It’s intimate. He doesn’t like it, but he ignores the discomfort for now.

He can _feel_ Vlad smile, even though he is made of darkness now, too.

“ _Come_ ,” Vlad says... _through_ him, “ _Let us destroy our enemy_.”

Steve lets go of his human sight and _sees_.

There are...so many of Hydra, so much more than he-

A general’s secretary.

A college professor.

A store clerk.

A taxi driver.

A father driving his kids to football practice.

An olympic athlete.

A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.

A teenage dropout.

A single mother.

A mechanical engineer.

A preschool teacher.

Steve stares at them all where he drifts between here and there, the shadows in the corners of rooms, the space just beyond them, the looking glass in the dark. His brow furrows, confused, surprised, shocked, and then...it clicks, and he feels _horrified_.

A general’s secretary. _Rerouting calls and relaying classified information_.

A college professor. _Recruiting minds and using the labs and equipment for Hydra experiments_.

A store clerk. _Scouting and information gathering_.

A taxi driver. _Transport and routing_.

A father driving his kids to football practice. _Recruiting teenagers and other desperate parents_.

An olympic athlete. _Training and recruiting_.

A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. _Inside information, rerouting, recruiting, spying_.

A teenage dropout. _Looking for work_.

A single mother. _Looking for work_.

A mechanical engineer. _Designing weapons, building projects their government won’t ethically fund_.

A preschool teacher. _Subtly teaching children Hydra’s ways, priming them for recruiting, recruiting their parents_.

“ _An idea spreads like a virus_ ,” Vlad comments, voice echoing through him and all over

Steve looks over and blinks, slowly panning his eyes up. Vlad is _huge_. Steve can just make out wings in the starry dark and wonders if he can make wings, too. Can Bucky?

“ _Shall we get started?_ ”

Steve nods.

 _For Bucky_.

\--

The first line of smaller submersibles dock first and the asset picks the emerging agents off as soon as they’re too far away from their machines to run back and hide. They scatter for the trees to take cover as fast as they can, but between him, Romanoff, and Barton, they manage to hold them off for a few minutes. And then Hydra gets smart and uses the guns attached to the quinjets in the sky while the second line of submersibles docks and they have to take cover, Romanoff and Barton ducking behind the jet while Bucky drops out of his tree, lands on his feet, and darts up into another one. The sun is setting when the rifle clicks empty and he’s out of spare clips and he drops it, focusing on his hands. They spark and catch and he closes his eyes, lets the _thrum_ of energy consume him and burn him from the inside out. He leaps up into the sky, aimed at the quinjets, trying to act as a diversion so Romanoff and Barton can get in their jet and return fire.

He crashes through jet, then another, tearing through metal with his bare hands and listening to the brief screams of the dying before the explosions drown them out, leaping through fire and bullets to do it all over again. The bullets sting when they hit but don’t quite pierce, so he doesn’t stop.

He feels his lips move and doesn’t realize he’s grinning until he swallows fire.

Romanoff and Barton run for the jet, Barton slapping the back hatch closed while Romanoff shoots out the closing gap and he runs for the front, getting the jet started. He pulls up enough to hover it and turn it around, then hits the button for the main gun and starts firing at the Hydra agents and their cover of trees.

“Remember when that dog food guy suggested canons for the quinjet and Fury said he’d take it into consideration?” Barton asks, eyes focused ahead.

“Agent Aines?” Romanoff asks, pushing a container open in the back and pulling out a rifle, loading it.

“Yeah,” Barton replies back louder, “Remind me to file a complaint to Fury for never doing it.” He pauses when he catches sight of something- someone familiar, covered in black with a white cross on his chest darting between the trees. “Nat,” he calls back over his shoulder, “Can you please come tell me I’m hallucinating?”

She moves up front, leaning on a hand on the back of the other pilot seat and looking out the window. A black figure darts to another tree, then stands still, long enough for her to see a familiar smirk.

“Damn,” she says, moving to the back again.

Barton sighs. “Damn,” he agrees, just as the gun runs out of bullets, “ _Double damn_.” Which is about when Rumlow rushes towards the jet with a swarm of Hydra agents trying to keep up behind him. “I thought he was dead!” Barton lets out as he pushes out of his seat and runs to the back where Natasha’s already hitting the button for the hatch.

She throws him a flat look back over her shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, we’re traveling with two vampires and _Dracula’s_ in the castle a mile that way,” he says, jerking his thumb and following her down the ramp, “Still.”

Her lips twitch and she brings her rifle up, aiming.

He brings up his bow.

\--

Bucky crashes through another jet just as the sun sinks below the horizon, and then he hears a piercing _wail_ like nothing he’s ever heard before, and whips his head around as he lands on top of another jet, digging his claws in to hold on. The forest surrounding the castle _trembles_ , a tremor shaking out the leaves of the trees from the epicenter at the castle. The trees give a _shake_ and then he can see them: the black forms darting between the trees straight for Hydra’s offensive line. There’s countless numbers of them, those creatures from the castle, all with sharp teeth and claws out, aiming for a throat to tear into.

He tears through the jet he’s on and goes for another while the rest of the submersibles dock and the jets change their aim of fire to the creatures darting out from the trees, two of the three large submarines finally coming to a stop and their top hatches opening. More Hydra agents spill out like ants from their mounds, and the third large submarine comes to a stop just as he leaps out of the next quinjet explosion to angle back towards Barton and Romanoff, landing as a crater in the middle of the ground and sending both Hydra agents and dirt alike flying.

\--

“Thought you were dead!” Barton calls over the jet, popping up to fire a grenade arrow before ducking back down, cover his hearing aids to muffle the explosion.

“ _Tried it! Decided I oughtta come back and kill you first!_ ” Rumlow calls back. Something comes up over the jet and lands next to him and Barton jerks, staring at the glassy, horrified eyes in a Hydra agent’s head.

“Aww, come on!” he makes himself call back, popping back up to launch a net, “ _I_ didn’t kill you!”

“ _I don’t hold it against you!_ ” Rumlow replies, a grin in his tone, “ _Honestly thought it’d be_ -”

Something grabs Barton’s ankle and his eyes dart down, going wide when he sees black... _oil_ coiling hard around his ankle from the shadows. He moves quick and shoves Natasha hard out of the shadow of the jet just before one launches up and wraps around his forearm.

“-the asset,” Rumlow finishes, rounding the back of the jet. Romanoff whips around and fires and Rumlow’s head jerks back with the hit, boots coming to a stop. He lowers his head back forward and reaches up to dig the bullet out of the center of his forehead, blood black where it streams down the center of his nose and off to and around the side of his mouth, eyes glowing red like the creatures from the castle. “Turns out Rogers has a vicious streak,” Rumlow continues, flicking the bullet off into the bushes, “ _Who knew_.”

Barton glances down at the black tightening around his arm and ankle, keeping him stuck. He thought it was like Rogers’ shadows at first, but now he can tell it’s... _slimier_ (gross), and sort of... _dripping_ ( _also gross_ ).

“Told ya he was gonna be a problem,” Rumlow smirks, teeth sharper than they were the last time Barton saw him.

“You’re-” he starts.

Rumlow’s smirk widens. “Guess dying with a variation of the serum in your veins leads to vampirism. Lucky me.”

Romanoff switches guns lightning quick and fires again, and this time Rumlow jerks, screams, hisses, the bullet wounds in his chest smoking. His face contorts, more lines creasing in it like the creatures, and he jerks his arm up, the black, slimy shadows streaking up out from under the jet towards Natasha just as a white streak comes crashing _into_ Rumlow, denting a crater into the ground with a loud _CRACK_ and sending enough dirt up to blind them. The black around his arm and ankle go slack, slide back into the shadows on the ground and Barton moves, scrambles to his feet and pulls an arrow out, notches it, and aims it at the crater. There’s screams from the other side of the jet, the people dying kind and the terrifying monster kind, so he keeps an eye out for any of _that_ , too.

Electricity _sparks_ up out of the cloud of dirt and the haze finally clears enough to see Barnes, or-

“Barnes?” Barton asks, eyes wide. Because he’s white and glowing, electricity shooting up off of his body every which way, sharp and hair raising. His hair’s drifting about like it’s in the water and red eyes glance their way, the full eye kind, a white-blue smoke smoking out the corners like when Rogers’ gets all terrifying in dark spaces.

Rumlow laughs beneath Bucky, manic and delighted, so Bucky raises his fist and puts it through Rumlow’s face, or tries to, frowning when Rumlow’s slimy black fist catches his and starts _oozing_ up his arm. Rumlow’s eyes are red, veins spider webbing out the whites of his eyes, and his skin is a sickly gray-white, more like a corpse than a living thing.

“Rogers gave me a gift,” Rumlow says, smile twitching smaller when Bucky just stares at him, “I can kill you now.”

Bucky keeps staring.

Rumlow snarls. “I _can!_ ” The black slowly creeps up Bucky’s arm, inching and inching until it’s up to his white-blue glowing elbow. Rumlow smirks, mouth stretching wider than any human’s. “I _**can.**_ ”

“You think you’re like Steve,” Bucky deduces.

Rumlow snarls again. “I’m _better_.”

Bucky’s eyes flare bright red, smoke glinting. “You’re not.” The air around him _hums_ and the black disintegrates, dries and flakes off, drifting up off his arm in pieces like burnt paper. Bucky pulls his hand back and slams it over Rumlow’s face, watching his eyes go wide between his glowing fingers, dying inhuman shrieks and screams muffled against his palm with smoke rising from the length of Rumlow, fogging the air before it swirls away and dissipates. Bucky rises and leaves Rumlow’s charred and cracked skeleton behind.

Then gets hit hard in the back by something, a blue blur streaking by just before fire blazes for his face-

He dodges, only to get shoved back straight into it, yelling as the fire tries digging into his skin like needles all over. He lands hard on his hands and knees and forces his head up.

There’s two, one with glowing blue eyes and one with red. The red one is standing ahead in all black, the Soldier’s muzzle on her face and long brown, greasy hair drifting on the wind like a ghost.

He slants his eyes over.

The blue one’s got short white hair, but he’s also in matching black with the asset’s muzzle over half of his face, eyes focused but vacant.

The Soldier looks between the two.

The girl’s fingers twitch and slowly curl, starting to glow a vibrant red, the color seeping out like fog or smoke before the edges start catching like embers-

 _Fuck_ , Bucky thinks, unbidden and vehement, and tries reaching down into himself. _I’m fast, but Blue is faster_ , he thinks, going deeper, down, down further, to somewhere- he doesn’t know where. _Red is quick, but more brutal than blue, so far, hits harder_. _But_ -

The blue one has to go down first.

An arrow hits the blue one in the back thigh while bullets hit the red one in the left shoulder. It’s the distraction Bucky needs, but the blue one crashes into Romanoff, sends her flying and skidding into the dirt and then comes straight for him and he _pushes_ -

And then down becomes up, with a light, floating feeling he’s never felt before, like he is made of air and energy and thought and nothing else. Like it’s...easy, so easy. He lets the feeling take over, almost, drift, trying not to focus on it too hard lest he lose it. For the first time that he can remember, he is light. The weight of the arm is gone. The weight of the metal in his body is gone. Yet he is here, a conductor, a spark, a livewire free to roam, move, _exist_.

Free.

He thought he was free before, but _this_ is it, to be unafraid, to be tied down only to what he wants, to have the world truly open for him, pages in a book he can now turn, no longer stopped by a firm hand or his own lacking. He can turn the pages. He can _be_.

Something comes crashing down and Barton dives over to cover Romanoff where she’s trying to get up, shielding her eyes with his body and tightly closing his own as something silently explodes, bright and hot white beyond his eyelids. The sound comes after, a great, deafening _**BOOM**_ that his him yelling from the feedback in his hearing aids. He yanks them out and sucks in a breath of dirt and ozone, adjusting and soaking in the muffled reprieve as long as he can. He forces his eyes open a crack when the bright white dials back, and tries looking around.

Then his eyes widen.

The edge of a crater starts just a few feet past Natasha’s boots, stretches out maybe the size of three quinjets all the way around, and Barnes is-

Barton slowly drags his eyes up.

Floating five feet above it, glowing so bright all Barton can really make out are his eyes, the brightest red he’s ever seen. Fire hurdles at Barnes and Barton shields his eyes from the heat, Barnes’ name on the back of his tongue even though it’s _too late_ -

The fire doesn’t hit, hits an invisible wall of some sort that sparks and crackles instead. Barnes is fine, still floating there when it dissipates, hasn’t moved an inch. He slowly raises an arm, barely points at the red girl and she’s struck by damn _lightning_ before any of them can do anything. She goes down, twitching, and the blue guy _screams_ , loud and outraged but muffled by the weird muzzle mask on his face, and runs to a blur at Barnes. He’s hit by lightning before he even gets halfway, collapsing in a heap in the grass and dirt, body twitching like the girl’s.

Barton watches them both for a moment to make sure they’re actually down before dragging his eyes back to Barnes. He’s looking off to the side, and Barton turns his head to follow his gaze when he feels Romanoff tense under him. He can see why.

They’re surrounded.

Those creatures from the castle have circled them, bodies dark like the wood of the surrounding trees, almost blending in with them save for their red eyes, dimmer than Barnes’, but bright enough to be eerie, especially in how they don’t blink. Barnes barely shifts in place and they all back up, scatter like a flock of baby alligators scurrying across the ground, off to kill Hydra, Barton guesses, unless Hydra’s already been wiped out, which is why they were just standing-

He freezes, hair standing on end, and darts his eyes back over to Barnes.

Barnes stares back, keeps perfectly still, then turns slightly towards the castle and shoots up into the sky like a lightning bolt in reverse, the delayed, resounding _**CRACK**_ like thunder making Romanoff jerk beneath him. They both watch the sky for a second before scrambling up and over to the jet, Romanoff limping a little. Barton rushes to the front to get the jet started while Romanoff keeps an eye on the back, gun trained out the opening until the hatch finishes closing.

‘ _It’s quiet_ ’, she signs when she takes the copilot seat. He blinks, warily tries putting his hearing aids back in but they’re fucked from the shitton of input, so he pockets them and digs out his spares.

He’ll take her word for it. But does that mean-

\-- *

Steve steps out of the shadows, shifting his gaze around.

He shouldn’t be here. It’s not one of his target stops, but...

He looks around Stark’s empty, grey workshop, jolting just a little and turning when a motor sound catches his attention. A machine on wheels with a crane handle rolls up to him, the handle lifting and crane twisting like an inquiring puppy. Steve feels his lips twitch faintly and steps back into the shadows. The universe welcomes him with open arms, or _a_ universe. It spreads out before him like it wants him to look, explore, stay.

He steps back out again.

The activity in the underground room ceases when someone screams. Ross whips around and his eyes widen. “Christ. _Rogers?_ ”

Steve watches him.

Ross huffs a dark laugh, but there’s a little bit of sweat gathering at his temples and the skin around his eyes is tight. There’s fear in them, his eyes. “Is there _anything_ human left in you?” he demands.

Steve watches him a moment more, glances around the room, then looks back to Ross. “That’s the problem,” he finally says, calm, then quieter, “There’s too much.”

Ross opens his mouth to say something but Steve moves, darts quick and smooth like an eel through the black oil of the shadows and slaughters everyone in the room with just as sharp claws and teeth. He stares down at Ross’ face after, at his wide eyes and open mouth, the blood spray up under his chin and jaw and staining his white hair, then turns and lets the darkness swallow the rest. He lets it swallow him too, embrace him like his mother used to, like Bucky might have, if Hydra had never stabbed their filthy fingers into his beautiful mind.

Melting into the dark feels like stepping into warm water, or maybe it’s cold, or both? It’s hard to think about and process all at once, let alone describe. But Steve finds Vlad there, and they keep going, and going, until Vlad’s huge wings have wilted, started to shrivel, and Steve feels so thirsty some of the deaths are from his teeth. It helps him keep going, get the job done. This one last job.

He feels a...surge, somewhere, at some point, that draws his head around, but his eyelids are getting so heavy, and leaving the shadows is getting harder. But he does it, keeps doing it, once, then twice, again and again and again until Vlad finally says, voice a little tremulous, shaky, like rocks tumbling down an ancient mountain, “ _We are nearly finished_.”

So Steve keeps going, pushes himself past the way his fingers start to feel stiff, the way his body becomes loose, floppy, nearly out of his control, past the way his eyelids slide halfway closed and he can’t get them back up, past the slowly gathering weight in his legs, his thighs, the cold-empty spreading up through his stomach, he keeps going...

Until the dark swallows his mind, too.

\--

Bucky crashes down through the ceiling where he left Steve, collides with the stone that parts like water around his static form. Cement goes flying, debris hitting some of the creatures stationed as guards around the room, dust and dirt kicked up into a fog. He hears them hiss, growl, but he darts like lightning, searching for Ste-

He jerks to a stop, air crackling around him, and then he’s at Steve’s side, hands hovering over his still form on the ancient, wide brick. He’s not- His eyes aren’t open, but Bucky can’t tell if he’s alive. He doesn’t breathe.

Movement makes him jerk his head up, finds Dracula being propped up by a few of the creatures, all glaring at and watching him warily. Dracula’s eyes are barely open.

“It is finished,” he croaks, voice still a little velvety despite sounding like he’s been in the desert for years, and then the creatures swarm him, wrap him up in themselves and they melt down into the shadows between the bricks of the floor, and are gone before Bucky can ask-

He looks back to Steve, to his closed eyes and still chest, laying on the floor like-

The bright white fades from Bucky’s hands, up his arms, from the rest of him as the crackling electricity goes silent. It’s easy to let the light feeling go when there’s a weight in his chest, his stomach, twisting and coiling and-

 _Dread_ , the word comes to him. He knows fear, and feels that too, but this is _dread_.

“Steve?” he asks, finally reaching for him, crossing the distance and touching him. He is cool, but that isn’t- He doesn’t know. He can’t know. He can’t know until Steve opens his eyes-

There are distant sounds of fighting outside, of thunder crashing and blasts going off, of engines approaching. The Soldier, the asset lets them fade, and Bucky gently cradles Steve’s face in his hands.

“Stevie?” he says softly, in a voice that might not be his own, and bends down before he knows what he’s doing, pressing their foreheads together. “Please,” he whispers, “Please. Please.” He can’t stop, stuck on repeat like a record, skipping over everything but that one word. “ _ **Please.**_ ”

 _Please don’t leave me alone_ , someone pleads across his thoughts, someone younger, someone more human yet- him, still him, this undead creature set to walk the earth until it is dust, or he is. He doesn’t want to do it alone, and some part of him, maybe that pleading part that begs again, might have thought he didn’t have to. He can survive without Steve, he knows he can, but he doesn’t... _want to_ , and traveling with Steve, he didn’t realize he’d come to think- that he wouldn’t have to.

His throat is tight, but there is no sting at the backs of his eyes, no tears to blur his vision. There is just that tightness in his throat as he looks down at Steve, holds his pale cheeks, searches his fanned lashes, brushes back his dirty blonde bangs. There is just this, this touch, this desperate searching, this...fervent _wishing_ he cannot grant himself, and has no one to make the wish to.

There’s running footsteps, getting closer, mechanics and whining energy, and he flares up white before he even has to think about it, letting go of Steve, hunching down over his still form with claws on the floor and a double toned snarl over the back of his shoulder. The steps stop at the double doors, Romanoff and Barton there with Stark and a man in a red cape the Soldier doesn’t know. They watch him warily, watch Steve anxiously, fingers hovering, twitching, body’s aching to move closer. The asset snarls louder when Stark’s suit takes a heavy step, and Stark stops, stills, says something the asset doesn’t want to hear.

“ _Let me check him?_ ” comes Stark’s voice, “ _I know I’m not up to date on vampire anatomy, but there’s gotta be something_ -”

“You want to risk getting fried in that tin can so you can go play _doctor?_ ” Barton snaps. Which is strange, the Bucky part of the asset knows this, but it has been a long evening. “He doesn’t have a pulse!”

Stark turns to Barton and the bickering starts. Romanoff’s eyes stay on the Soldier, and it’s the man with the cape that steps forward, just once, voice low and gentle even through the Soldier’s growling. “I am not of this world. I have familiarity with things beyond it. May I approach?” Stark and Barton stop arguing and turn to look, and the asset-

His growling cuts off, but he watches them, eyes narrow and glowing red, air crackling sharply. He growls low when the caped man takes another step, and another, and watches him intently, keeping aware of the others while the man slowly rounds to Steve’s head, then just as slowly crouches. The asset’s growling ticks up a notch when the man slowly reaches out, and the man looks at him with something that might be reassurance, not that it means anything, before looking back down at Steve. He gently presses both palms to the sides of Steve’s head, closing his eyes.

They all wait in the tense silence.

The man opens his eyes after a minute and frowns, slowly pulling his hands away.

“I am sorry,” he says, looking up at the asset, who stills further, “I cannot tell if he is alive or not.”

“Maybe we should try giving him blood?” Stark asks, faceplate popping up. But it is Romanoff who moves forward while the caped man slowly rises and moves back to the door. The Soldier watches her tensely, warily. She stops on Steve’s other side and holds her wrist out, looking up to the Soldier.

“Don’t cut too deep,” she warns, face, suit, and knuckles dirty and hair a mess.

The Soldier doesn’t ask twice, just reaches up a hand and slices the base of her palm. She moves her wrist to aim it over Steve’s mouth, blood droplets trailing from Steve’s chin to his lips, nearly black in the night, and the Soldier reaches down as the bright white fades from his hand so he can touch, forcing Steve’s mouth open. He watches, they both do, as the red drips and slides down his tongue.

They wait, and wait.

Romanoff pulls her hand back and bandages it.

They wait, the room holding its breath.

Starlight comes through the hole he made, the sky clear.

 _They wait_.

Stark’s suit shifts, metal grinding against old stone. It almost sounds like the Soldier’s chest feels, heart grinding to dust in the useless cavity. The fireplace has almost gone out, he vaguely realizes, and then it does completely with a wispy trail of smoke drifting and dissipating out into the room.

Romanoff slowly sits back on her heels, head lowering a little and dirty, gloomy red hair shifting forward with the motion.

Steve doesn’t move.

The Soldier slides his hand up from Steve’s jaw, looking over his face in the electric white glow he makes. There is something building in him, huge and terrible and errant electricity sparks and crackles out along the ground from his hunched form, wisps of his white hair drifting and dancing at the edges of his vision, framing his view of Steve’s face.

“Steve,” he whispers, then growls it viciously, “ _ **Steve!**_ ”

Steve doesn’t move.

Bucky’s fingers twitch against his skin.

And then it goes pure white and starts corroding, edges like embers spreading into dust. It falls past his fingertips to the floor, and then there’s nothing, no Steve, just a length of dust and rumpled clothes on the floor. Someone sucks in a breath, someone’s knees hit the ground, but all Bucky can do is stare.

He was just here. Steve was just here. He looked like he was-

_“We need to rest,” he finally says._

_Steve presses their foreheads together. “Sleep with me?”_

_“...Alright,” Bucky allows, letting Steve pull him down to the ground with him. Steve doesn’t curl around him like he expects, just keeps hold of his hand and curls up on his side facing him. Bucky, the Soldier, the asset...lets himself touch, slowly tangling their fingers together, and lets himself rest. It’s not awkward this time, and Steve doesn’t let go._

_Bucky opens his eyes later and looks down to find blonde hair. Steve curls into him like he is small, a fragile thing to be guarded, protected, safe. He doesn’t know if those feelings are truly his, or if they belong to another time, but he…_

There is a high, ragged keen he doesn’t realize is coming from his throat until he clenches his fists, sharp nails going right through his right palm as his eyes flare red and he screams a sound _like_ _dying_. And then he is light and thought, bursting up through the roof in search of the cause of the pain in his chest, the- despair, the rapidly growing pit of an enormous cluster of emotions and rage swallowing him whole like Steve’s darkness does- used to. But this isn’t a caress of- love, a shield against Hydra, it is a world destroying _**hate.**_

\-----

Natasha finds him in the ashes exactly seven days later. Dracula went to ground, the most impressive attempt she’s ever seen, but Barnes still found him like she knew he would. Seven days of fire and screaming and lightning even Thor couldn’t control.

She steps over a charred, clawed arm.

It took the same time to unravel the world as to supposedly make it.

Barnes is sitting at the epicenter of dying destruction, a phoenix drowning in its own ashes instead of rising. He is on his knees in the rubble and dust, hands loose in his lap and head hanging, the last of his electric glow fading from the falling wisps of his hair. He doesn’t look up when she stops five feet in front of him.

They exist there, until the sun has come up and starts filtering through the storm clouds and his time begins running out. It has been, since-

She pulls the blade out but doesn’t raise it, a special one Stark made just for this, made very, very carefully from Rogers’ shield. There had been jokes in their minds about vampire hunting that none of them could make. It’s only when his skin starts smoking faintly in the sunlight that she raises it to his neck, strands of his hair falling away under the sharp edge when they brush.

“No more surviving?” she asks, soft and quiet.

He finally lifts his head, as beautiful and whole as the day she met him decades ago, except for his dead, pained eyes. He lengthens his neck up, tilting his head back a little. “Not without him,” he says, so quiet she almost doesn’t hear it.

It’s simple, she thinks, those three words, the only thing he needs to say.

He drags his eyes up to look at the sky, and then closes them, letting out a slow breath he hasn’t needed in over sixty years. When it reaches its end, she pulls the blade back and slices it across in one smooth, quick stroke-

It is quiet, like a silenced gunshot, barely a wisp of sound. Even as his head falls and his skin turns white and starts to fade, he is beautiful. His dust glimmers in the morning sunlight, and then he is ash and forgotten clothes hitting the resulting wreckage of his pain.

 

“ _Not without him.”_

_“No, not without you!”_

_“I love you_.”

 

She tilts her head back to look up at the sky. The rest of the storm clouds dissipate and all that’s left is light, and she closes her eyes to the tears gathering in her eyes, listening to the sound of Barton’s steps picking through the rubble.

She doesn’t believe in much, but maybe now, Barnes and Rogers can find peace.

End


	24. It's not over, it's not the end

_Six Months Later_

 

Bucky presses a fingertip to the side of the old tv and it comes on, takes his finger away and it turns off. On-

 

_“-still no progress in the mass murder that occurred-”_

 

Off. On-

 

_“-no suspects”_

 

Off. On-

 

_“-buildings and documents burned. Police officials-”_

 

Off. On-

 

_“-no leads-”_

 

Off. On-

 

_“-world’s most terrifying, global mystery-”_

 

Off. O-

Fingers slide up the back of his neck through his buzzed-short hair, up into the longer part on the top and he shudders, pulls his hand away from the tv. He discards it in favor of leaning back, head tilting back with a slow breath, then turning and laying down on the plush orange carpet with Steve.

\-----

Tony taps the access number for the lab into the keypad and pushes the glass door open, taking a drink of his green smoothie as he heads for his third workbench, pointing at a loitering Dum-E on the way. “What’s got your gears in a bunch?”

Dum-E swirls about in place, metal arm swinging up and down, claw _swirling_.

“Alright, alright! Anxious hen,” Tony says, putting his glass down on the work table, “JARVIS, do you have any idea what-” he cuts off, spotting a white square out of the bottom of his eye. He looks down, frowning and crouching, picking up the piece of paper and turning it over. He freezes.

 

‘ _Thank you. Sorry_.’

 

He whips around, nearly toppling over in his crouch, but the lab is empty. “JARVIS? Any activity while I was gone?”

“ _Just that note, Sir. I picked it up on my sensors ten minutes ago_.”

“Play footage.”

A holoscreen materializes showing a side view of the lab, then the piece of paper in his hand comes sliding out from under his work table.

“Replay. Enhance,” he orders. The image zooms in and the paper comes sliding out.” Any direct angles?”

The image angle changes to one right across from the open side of the table, stool to the right where he sometimes sits. The paper comes shooting out of the dark-

Tony stares, slowly looking down and over to the shadowed corners under the lowest shelf of the table. “Rogers…?” he asks, waits. There’s nothing for five minutes, six, seven. Tony huffs a snort, feeling like an idiot. “Least you could do was give me your phone number!” he calls down, standing. He moves to the right of the table, setting the paper down and reaching or his drink-

Something hits the front of his shoe with a _crinkle_ and his eyes dart down, staring. He slowly crouches again, picking up the piece of paper and turning it over.

There’s a string of numbers on the back.

He sits down cross-legged on the shiny floor and scoots himself a bit back before digging his phone out and typing in the numbers into his contacts, then a text:

‘ _U know that’s super creepy right_ ’ he types, sending it.

Thirty seconds later:

‘ _(:_ ’

He stares, then types again.

‘ _U do it to Barton yet?’_

 _‘He was very loud_ ’

Tony snorts and it turns into a cough, not even on purpose, then into a slightly ( _just slightly_ ) hysterical laugh.

 _I’m texting an immortal, vampire national icon who sent me his phone number via shadow mail_ , he thinks a little hysterically.

There’s a moment of stillness, of possibility that Tony’s all too familiar with letting go by. He could ask how they’re doing, if Rogers is okay, but instead he types:

‘ _Update me if ur # changes’_

 _‘Will do_ ’

‘ _And if you need help_ ’ he types quickly, sending it before he can think too much about it. He waits, staring at the screen.

‘ _(:_ ’

He huffs, looking up from the phone to the shadows under the table.

They’re literal monsters under the bed. Instead of letting himself feel the whole horrific implications and scenarios of that and letting the ideas sink their teeth ( _ha!_ ) in, he types:

‘ _And no peeping!_ ’

A minute later:

‘ _No promises_ ’

Sounds like Barnes, so Tony says as much.

‘ _(;_ ’

He sits there for a minute, just staring between his phone screen and the shadows, then gets up and grabs his smoothie. He’s got work to do.

\--

Steve and Bucky stare down at the phone for a minute and then Bucky pockets it. Steve leans his shoulder into Bucky’s, Other Bucky leaning his shoulder into Steve’s in Steve’s periphery. They watch the sun sink down past the mountains on the horizon and another night begins, another in a long line-

Steve smiles, turning his head to press a kiss to Bucky’s cheek, and Bucky smiles over at him, just a little, just a small one, just for him, while Other Bucky makes obnoxious kissy noises.

-for all three of them.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, guys. Thank you for sticking this through with me through the hiatus years. I know it's been a long time. I'm tearing up to know it's finished now. Thank you for reading this, and thank you for telling me your thoughts or leaving kudos, and if you've been here from the beginning holy crap that's _amazing_. I'm touched, seriously. 
> 
> And thank you to Kay, for inspiring me and betaing even though your life is so hectic. You helped keep me afloat through this and I can only hope reading over the chapters gave you a reprieve from everything going on. Thank you. ;-; <333333
> 
> And thank you, all of you. ;-; <33333


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